Suldog

The Gift

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Thu, 21 Dec 2023 10:32:00 +0000

[Christmas, 1965 or thereabout]

The boy was very young; perhaps 7 or 8 years old. He loved everything about Christmas - the lights, the music, Santa Claus, the trees covered in tinsel and shiny ornaments - but especially the snow. For as long as he could remember (which wasn't very long, but it was a lifetime) there was always snow at Christmas. The whole thing was magical.

He walked down the street, on his way to a store near his home, and it was beginning to snow again. There was already an inch or two on the ground from yesterday and it was shiny, bright, white, and made everything it covered pretty. He opened his mouth and turned his face to the sky, trying to catch a couple of snowflakes on his tongue. He thought he succeeded, but it was hard to tell because snow melted as soon as it hit your tongue, so you couldn't collect a mouthful of it to prove that you caught some. He jingled a couple of nickels in his pocket, sliding his green rubber boots along in the snow as he walked with his face to the sky.

He was on his way to the store to buy a gift. He enjoyed receiving presents, of course; what child doesn't? However, he also very much enjoyed giving them to others. He loved to see people's faces when they opened their gifts. It was another magical thing about this time of year. He rarely saw anyone unhappy around Christmas and he never saw anyone unhappy when they opened a present.

Being very young, the boy didn't have much money. He received an allowance, but only one dollar. He had already bought presents for his mother and father. For his mother, it was some cheap perfume. For his father, it was some cheap cigars.

(Realize that when I say "cheap", I don't mean to imply that the boy had gone out of his way to buy inexpensive and shoddy presents. He hadn't. He had lovingly picked them out, albeit within his modest budget. The cigars and perfume were cheap, though. Being a young boy, he had no appreciation of perfume and thought they all smelled pretty much alike - stinky. He also had no idea that some cigars, when lit, smell like innertubes burning. However, these had come in a package with a big white owl on the front, and he did know that his dad liked owls.)

He had ten cents left over from his original dollar, which will give you an idea of the value of the cigars and perfume. In any case, he now wanted to buy a present for his aunt.

His aunt was the older relative closest in age to the boy. She was around 19 or 20. She had lived with the boy and his parents for a short while when the boy was much younger. They had grown very close during this time. She was close enough in age to have been the boy's older sister and, in some ways, that's what the boy thought of her as.

The boy reached the main street. The store was on the other side, so he pressed the button that made the light red to stop the traffic. He loved how even the traffic lights joined in with the season, flashing red and green and yellow just like the lights on a Christmas tree. He looked both ways and then crossed the street.

He walked through the parking lot of the store, again noticing how people were so much happier this time of year. Everybody had a cheery "Hello!" for the people they met. As he entered the store through the automatic door (how did it know?) he heard Christmas music playing over the store's speakers.

He felt great. He was in love with the world.

Now he had to find a present for his aunt. He hadn't really given thought about this part of the task. He just assumed that he'd be able to find something nice. After all, a dime would buy a comic book, or two candy bars, or even twenty of those 2-for-1 Mint Julep candies. Certainly he'd be able to find something his aunt would love.

What sorts of thoughts go through the mind of a small boy? Many and varied, of course, but some are unfathomable. As he was walking down one of the aisles, he spotted something very colorful and pretty. He had always liked how these things looked. They were useful, too. And, when he checked the price, it was ten cents - just right! This is what he would get his aunt for Christmas.

He brought the gift up to the checkout and paid for it. Now there was nothing to jingle in his pockets, but that was OK. His Christmas shopping was done.

He made his way back home, enjoying the big colored lights that were on just about every house in the neighborhood, again catching (or trying to catch) snowflakes in his mouth.

*********************************************

When he got home, he took off his boots (which was always troublesome – he always seemed to leave one sock inside of a boot) and then ran upstairs to his room, to wrap this newest gift.

He was an only child. He spent many hours by himself, in his room, and he very much enjoyed that privacy. He didn’t dislike other people - far from it, in fact - but he did enjoy dreaming and using his imagination. He discovered early on that it’s almost impossible to dream when someone else is in your room. Someone else almost always wants to talk, and you can’t carry on a decent conversation with someone else and dream at the same time. Anyway, as a result of spending much time alone, he became fairly self-sufficient.

(Whenever anyone asked him if he wouldn’t rather have a brother or sister, he would firmly say, “No!” and he hoped that the people asking him these questions would see to it that the proper authorities – whoever was in charge of bringing brothers and sisters – did not make any deliveries to his house.)

Being such a self-sufficient boy, he mostly wrapped his own presents. He had already wrapped all of his other gifts for family. Many of his relatives got handmade gifts of one sort or another. For instance, every year since he was able to handle crayons, he had made his grandfather a hand-drawn calendar, which his grandfather treasured receiving. Now, he wrapped the gift for his aunt in colorful paper, once again admiring how colorful the gift was, too.

*******************************************

That night, Christmas Eve, he did what many Christian boys and girls try to do. Almost immediately after dinner, he went to bed. He tried to go to sleep at an abnormally early hour, hoping to thus wake up sooner and make Christmas come quicker. Before going to bed, he hung his stocking on his bedroom door (since there was no chimney or fireplace in his house.) He turned on the little transistor radio he had received as a gift on his last birthday and searched out a station playing Christmas music. In those days of his youth, it seemed the only time they ever played Christmas music on the radio was starting on Christmas Eve and he loved hearing all of the songs he heard (and loved) a year ago. His favorite was “Silver Bells”, and they played it not long after he lay down, much to his delight. Slowly, to the strains of “Do You Hear What I Hear?”, he drifted off to sleep.

(A curious thing about being a boy is that sometimes you can will yourself to dream what you want to dream. Not always, of course, but sometimes. You might think it an odd thing to dream, but the boy had dreamed of Yogi Bear and Huckleberry Hound every Christmas Eve [that is, every one in the memory of his short life] and he hoped that he’d have that same dream again this night, as it was great fun running around with cartoon characters. He did.)

********************************************

Since he had gone to bed so early, he awoke at 3 am. He got up to go to the bathroom, but when he opened his door, he felt the heaviness of a full stocking on the other side of it, so thoughts of peeing suddenly took a backseat to seeing what Santa had left. He gently took out the tack that was holding the stocking to the door, making doubly sure he had a firm grip on the stocking and it wouldn’t fall on the hall floor (in case there was anything in it that might break) and he took it back to his bed, flipping on the bedroom light switch as he did so.

He wasn’t a greedy sort of a boy and so he didn’t just dump everything out on the bed in one fell swoop. Instead, he took the items out one at a time and carefully, lovingly, examined them. There were candy cigarettes with little bits of red food coloring on the ends to simulate their being lit; a set of jacks with a small rubber ball; a wind-up dog that did backflips until there wasn’t enough wind-up left (so then it landed on its head); a pinkie ball (great for three-flies-out on the front steps); one of those puzzles that you have to move around the pieces until you get it to read 1 through 15 in order; and a pencil with his very own name engraved on it! He attempted to solve the puzzle for a little bit, but then he remembered that he had to pee, so he did.

(He went to the bathroom to do so.)

After washing his hands and brushing his teeth, he went downstairs and plugged in the Christmas tree. He considered a Christmas tree the most beautiful thing on earth, and this one was filled with enormous colored lights, ornaments of all shapes and sizes, big handfuls of tinsel on every branch, and a long garland of popcorn (which he and his mother had strung one evening last week.) Topping it off was a white star with a red bulb inside it. He sat down on the floor and just stared at the tree for ten minutes, bathing in its warmth, both real (from the gigantic lights) and metaphysical.

He probably would have stared at it a bit longer, but his cat came along and started playing with one of the low-hanging ornaments and that broke him out of his reverie.

He loved the cat very much and he loved watching her play - even more than he liked looking at the tree. After she failed to defeat the ornament - it still hung on the branch and she now wriggled on her back, enjoying the pine needles that had fallen - he went out to the kitchen and opened a can of cat food. Hearing the opener whirr, she came running like a shot - for a cat will take food over ornaments, every time (thus proving, once again, their innate intelligence.)

The boy poured himself a glass of milk and added some chocolate to it. He then took this back upstairs, drank it while eating a candy cigarette, and went back to sleep, listening to “The Little Drummer Boy” and imagining himself a poor boy playing drums for Jesus. The cat came upstairs and joined him in sleep, though what she dreamed of remains a mystery.

******************************************

When he awoke again, it was 7am and his mother and father were also awake. They all went downstairs and opened presents, enjoying some cocoa while they did so. The boy received wonderful presents of games and toys, as well as a couple of shirts and such that he knew he should be more thankful for than he was. The cat received a catnip mouse (from Sandy Claws) and was very thankful for it. The parents exchanged gifts with each other and were thankful for those, and they received the stinky perfume and the smelly cigars with warmth at the thought behind them.

Now it was time for mass, after which the family would head over to the aunt’s to exchange gifts, before heading off to the house of the boy's grandparents.

Mass was as mass usually is – something which cats are thankful not to have to attend. It wasn’t that the boy didn’t want to wish Jesus a happy birthday and all – he really loved the bible stories very much, and he admired to no end someone who would lay down his own life for that of his friends – but the priest saying the mass this morning just went on and on and on and on. Even though he had slept close to ten hours, the boy could feel his eyes drooping as the interminable homily crept, s-l-o-w-l-y, towards a conclusion that had stopped being meaningful to all but the most die-hard some ten minutes before. Finally, after the homily died its excruciating death and communion was served, and after everyone had sung a rousing “Joy To The World”, it was time to get on the road and go exchange presents with other family members.

After a 15-minute drive, the boy and his parents arrived at the aunt’s house. They went inside to a warm welcome from the aunt and the rest of her family gathered there, which included a few other adults and a couple of infants, the boy's cousins. After a few minutes of small talk (mostly complaints from the boy’s father concerning the length of the homily at mass) it was time to open presents.

The boy watched with delight as everybody opened packages and smiled. Here was the magic again. Everyone went "Ooh!" and "Ah!" in the appropriate places as they received the presents that others had purchased for them. And now, his aunt had his gift in her hands and she carefully removed the wrapping paper, revealing the gift for all to see.

There were some smiles. Not that the boy noticed, but there were also a couple of glances exchanged by the grown-ups with some muffled laughter included. The aunt looked at her gift, then looked lovingly at the boy. He looked back at her with love in his heart.

She said, “Oh, Jimmy, they’re just what I needed! Thank you, darling!”

She reached over and kissed him. He blushed and said, “You’re welcome.”

Never before had a package of red and green kitchen sponges brought such joy to two people.

*******************************************

True story.

My Auntie Ba could have laughed at such a ridiculous gift. Some of the other adults might have joined in and then I would have been mortified. Instead, she gave me a marvelous gift that Christmas and she did so just by being her wonderful loving self. I don't even remember what her store-bought present to me was that year. What I remember is her giving me the knowledge that there is no such thing as a bad gift so long as there is love behind the giving of it.

May the gifts you give, whether large or small or precious or ludicrous (like sponges) be received as lovingly. And please receive with love every gift given you. You never know how profoundly your love might affect someone.

My Auntie Ba is gone now, and I miss her, but her spirit lives on with me every Christmas because of the gift she gave me.

Merry Christmas!

Pointy The Poinsettia

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Sun, 17 Dec 2023 11:00:00 +0000

Once upon a time, there was a poinsettia named Pointy.

(His given name was Poindexter Poinsettia, but everybody called him Pointy for short.)

Pointy liked living in the large greenhouse with his poinsettia family and other plant friends.

"In November, all the poinsettias who have grown big red leaves are taken from the greenhouse and sent all over the world to give joy to the people who celebrate Christmas. The people are very happy to have a poinsettia in their home or school or office. They smile and say things like, ‘What a beautiful poinsettia! How pretty it is, with its big red and green leaves! Merry Christmas!’"

Pointy was very excited. He had never considered the possibility of travel, but now he hoped that he might be able to go far away and see many interesting people and things. He enjoyed the thought of bringing great joy to people celebrating Christmas. He packed his bags and waited to be shipped.

(Well, OK, he didn’t actually have any bags. As a matter of fact, even if he did have bags, he wouldn’t have known what to pack in them. But you get the idea - He was excited and ready to go.)

Finally, the day came when Pointy was planted into a big pot, all trimmed with pretty gold foil.

He felt extra-special now! He was then loaded into a truck, along with about thirty other plants. As the truck was driving away, he waved good-bye to his Uncle Pedro.

(No, he didn’t really. No hands, you know? He did what he could, though. Uncle Pedro understood.)

*********************************************

As they were bumping down the road, Pointy looked around. He appeared to be the only poinsettia plant in the truck. He struck up a conversation with the flower next to him, a girl. He knew she was a girl because... well, he just did, that’s all.

"Hi, I’m Poindexter Poinsettia, but everybody calls me Pointy. What’s your name?"

"Rose."

"You're really pretty, Rose."

"Thank you. You have nice big red leaves."

Pointy blushed.

(To be truthful, he didn’t actually blush; his leaves were already red. But he WAS a bit embarrassed. Rose was really pretty, and it was nice to get a compliment from her.)

Pointy asked, "Do you know where we’re going, Rose?"

"Yes, I think so, Pointy. My Aunt Petunia said we’re all going to office buildings in Newton."

"Newton? Where’s that?"

"I’m not entirely sure, but I believe it’s east of Worcester."

"Oh! Is that a good thing?"

"It’s better than being in Worcester," said Rose.

Pointy looked out the window of the truck. Having never been out of the greenhouse before, he was amazed at how many plants there were everywhere. He saw great huge trees, and big green hedges, and large bunches of scary weeds, and gigantic expanses of grass, and even a few pretty flowers like his new friend, Rose. However, he didn’t see a single poinsettia anywhere. This worried him a bit.

He asked Rose, "Am I going to be the only poinsettia in Newton?"

Rose shrugged her shoulders.

(Nah, not really. She didn’t have shoulders. She did indicate she didn’t know the answer to Pointy’s question, but shoulders never entered into it.)

The truck turned off the road and into a parking lot. After it stopped, the back door of the truck opened and a man reached in and grabbed Rose.

Pointy said, "Good luck, Rose! I hope you bring much joy to the people in this building!"

Rose blew a kiss to Pointy, and then she was gone. The man carried her inside the building where they had stopped.

The door of the truck was still open, so Pointy was able to see Rose being carried by the man. The man stopped and handed Rose to a woman sitting behind a desk. The woman immediately became very happy, a big smile appearing on her face.

As the man who delivered Rose was walking back to the truck, Pointy saw the happy woman carrying Rose all around her office, showing Rose to all her friends. Everybody smiled as soon as they saw Rose, and Rose was very happy in her new home. Pointy was also very happy, for now he was extra excited about how happy he was going to make the people where he was going.

The man closed the door to the truck. Soon, the truck was moving again. Pointy imagined being carried into an office where all the people would smile and say, "What a beautiful poinsettia! How pretty it is, with its big red and green leaves! Merry Christmas!"

While Pointy was imagining this, the truck stopped in front of another building. The back door to the truck opened and suddenly Pointy was in the man’s hands, being carried outside.

"This is it!" thought Pointy, "I’m about to make many people happy! I can’t wait to see their smiles, and hear them say ‘Merry Christmas!’"

The man brought Pointy up some stairs and then through a glass door. There was a woman at a desk just inside the door. Pointy tried to make his big, red leaves stand up as straight and proud as possible. As he did so, he heard the woman say:

"What the hell is that?"

The man said, "Gift from your landlord. It’s a poinsettia."

"Duh! I can see it’s a poinsettia. What are we supposed to do with it?"

"I don’t know, lady. I just deliver ‘em. Merry Christmas."

Pointy didn’t understand. The woman didn’t seem happy at all. Had he done something wrong?

The woman yelled to someone, "Hey, come see what we got."

A man came out of an office, saw Pointy, and rolled his eyes. He said, "Ugh! Another poinsettia? Every year, we get a friggin' poinsettia and every year we have no place to put it. What in the hell are we going to do with it?"

"Don’t look at me," said the woman at the desk, "I don’t have any room for it here."

Other people came out of their offices to see what the noise was about. As each one saw Pointy, they laughed and made faces and said mean things.

Pointy wanted very much to be back in his friendly greenhouse. This wasn’t at all as he had imagined it, or as Uncle Pedro had told him it would be. He wanted to just shrivel up and make himself as small as possible.

Finally, the woman at the desk took him and placed him on a wobbly table, near some stacks of old yellowed paper and bent paperclips and dried up pens that nobody ever used. Every so often, someone who hadn’t seen Pointy would walk by. At first, Pointy tried standing up proud and showing off his pretty red leaves. However, it was always the same story. Either the person just walked by without noticing him, or laughed and said something mean about him.

After a while, Pointy just gave up. He stopped caring what the people said. He started losing his big red leaves that he had been so proud of. As he did so, the people in the office started saying even worse things about him. They kicked at his fallen leaves and, when they picked them up, they threw them in the garbage, cursing. He could feel his roots drying out. Nobody gave him any water. Nobody cared about him. There was no sun; just a cold bit of light from some fluorescent tubes. As much as a poinsettia had a heart, Pointy’s was broken.

Pointy lost many more of his leaves. He was dying. He wanted to die. Life was a miserable thing. Christmas? It was just a cruel joke. He had imagined much love, and had received none.

**********************************************

One day, about a week after he had been delivered, a new person came into the office. Pointy hadn’t seen this person before, but he expected to hear more of the same insults and derisive laughter. He didn’t care. What could this person say to hurt him more than what he had already lived through?

The new person said, "Hey, who gave us the poinsettia?"

The woman at the desk answered, "Oh, the landlord gave us the damn thing. It’s been shedding leaves ever since it got here."

Pointy listened disinterestedly.

The new person said, "Well, heck, maybe he needs a little water. Has anybody given him a drink?"

Pointy’s ears perked up (or, at least, what passed for ears on Pointy.)

"Let’s give him a drink," said the new person.

"Knock yourself out," said the woman at the desk.

The new person went into the kitchen and Pointy could hear water running. As much as he thought he was beyond caring, he felt himself thirsting for a drink. The new person came back out carrying a cup full of water. He poured it into Pointy’s dirt.

Pointy was shocked by how good it felt.

The new person said, "There you go, guy. How’s that?"

Pointy wanted to jump out of his pot and give the person a hug!

The new person said, to the lady at the desk, "Hey, do you mind if I take him into my office? Maybe I can bring him back to life."

The woman at the desk said, "Give it your best shot, Jim, but I think it’s a lost cause."

Jim! That was the friendly man’s name! Pointy tried to make what leaves he had left stand up a bit for Jim, but he was too weak to do very much. He noticed with gratitude that it didn’t seem to matter to Jim. Jim was picking him up and taking him into his office anyway.

************************************************

Every day, Pointy waited for Jim to arrive. Every day, Jim did something nice for Pointy. He gave Pointy a drink of water, or put him where he could get a bit of sunshine. When one of Pointy’s leaves was withered and painful, Jim gently removed it, giving Pointy space to grow a new, stronger leaf.

Finally, it came to the day before Christmas. For all of the love Pointy was receiving from Jim, there was still the pain of knowing that what he had heard about Christmas was untrue. Nobody had seen him and said, ‘What a beautiful poinsettia! How pretty it is, with its big red and green leaves! Merry Christmas!’

Pointy had grown back some big, green leaves. The few red ones he had left were strong and bright now. He wished that someone would get to see them for Christmas. He wished that he could bring someone some joy. Of course, Jim liked him, but he still wanted to believe in what his Uncle Pedro had told him during that time which seemed so long ago now. He wanted to be a plant that made people smile at Christmas.

It was December 24th. There had been a party in the office and now Pointy saw lights being turned off and he heard people saying cheery good-byes, wishing each other happy holidays. Well, he had been lucky to find one new friend, he supposed. Maybe that would get him through the holiday. Jim would be back in a couple of days, and that wouldn’t be so bad. At least he made Jim happy.

He heard the door lock. It was dark and cold now. His leaves drooped a bit. Even though he expected to spend Christmas alone in the office, he had still hoped...

(*CLICK*)

Pointy heard the door to the office open and he noticed one light come on.

"Probably the cleaning people", thought Pointy.

But then, there was Jim! Jim bent down and picked Pointy up, carried him out of the office, down the stairs, and out into the... SNOW! Jim put Pointy down into the cold white stuff!

Oh, no! Was Jim tired of him, too? Was he leaving him to die in the snow? What a cruel world!

Pointy only had a few seconds to entertain such morbid thoughts. Jim picked him up again, put him into the front seat of his car, put a seat belt around Pointy's container, and turned on the heat. Then Jim started driving. Jim was taking Pointy home! For Christmas!

And so Jim DID bring Pointy home for Christmas, and Pointy saw Christmas lights and Christmas trees, and he had sunshine and warmth and as much water as he wanted to drink. He had a seat of honor by the fireplace, where the stockings hung, and he was given some lovely ribbons to wear. And love. Pointy was given love. And on Christmas morning, Jim (and JIM'S WIFE) said to Pointy...

"What a beautiful poinsettia! How pretty you are, with your big red and green leaves! Merry Christmas!"

Pointy was the happiest poinsettia in the whole entire world!

THE END

**************************************************

Text by Jim Sullivan, who wishes to thank Meghan Wilson for her wonderful illustrations.

Remember, if you get a happy poinsettia for Christmas, it doesn't have to be thrown out with the old tree and discarded wrapping paper. With a bit of love, it can keep growing for years. It probably won't have big red leaves all that time, but green is a nice Christmas color, too!

Soon, with more better stuff.

My Favorite Day of the Year

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Wed, 22 Nov 2023 21:30:00 +0000

I have published this piece before, multiple times. The last was in 2019, so necessarily a few things have changed. Lovely people have passed on. Others have joined the feast. The day is now spent mainly at My Mom's home, rather than ours, but I still do the bulk of the cooking. In any case, Thanksgiving is still what the title says, and I felt I should say it all again. Here goes...

fris‧son / Pronunciation [free-sohn; Fr. free-sawn]
a sudden, passing sensation of excitement; a shudder of emotion; thrill.
(Random House Unabridged Dictionary)

My favorite day of the year is Thanksgiving.

I like all holidays. Any day off from work, or during which people come together to celebrate, or when you get (or give) gifts, is a good day. Some days, however, are more special than others.

Christmas used to be my favorite. When I was a kid, I went straight from one frisson to another during the week leading up to Christmas. The celebration of Christ’s birth was magical and there was no end to the ways that the world delighted me. As I’ve grown older, that magic has ebbed. I haven’t changed, though; it’s the world that has.

When I was a child, nearly every house in the neighborhood sported pastel lights of red, yellow, green, blue and orange, either as decoration outside or via a candle or two in the windows. The streets were bathed in an embracing warmth, a welcoming glow. Nowadays, the lights of choice are mostly cold; icicles and clear starbursts. I guess a lot of folks like them – otherwise, why would they have them? - but all they do for me is make the night streets too much like daytime. Those bright white lights don’t do anything but remind me of how cold it is in winter. The colorful lights of my childhood made me feel warm inside, even during the meanest of snowstorms outside.

I love Christmas music. I always have. Every year of my youth, I looked forward to it beginning, sporadically, after Thanksgiving, then building bit by bit until there was an entire glorious day and night of it from Christmas Eve through to Christmas Night. It then played on the radio all day, but only all day on Christmas and most of the day before. In the morning, while opening presents with my Mom and Dad, we played the two or three vinyl Christmas records we had at home. It was rare and therefore special.

Now the trouble is in trying to avoid it. Some radio stations start playing it 24 hours a day in October. Walk into any store and it's possible you'll be assaulted with it before Veterans Day. Seriously - and I mean this - if you like that sort of thing, God bless you. To me, though, Christmas music is like chocolate. A few pieces, rich and creamy, are delightful. Feed it to me non-stop for sixty days? All that is, is a sick stomach.

The final nail in my Christmas coffin is driven in by the greedy merchants who don't wait for Thanksgiving to be over before they start spewing forth their hideous advertisements.

I rail against it every year on my Facebook page, Thanksgiving Comes First. MY WIFE tells me to relax, that I can’t change it, that there really isn’t anything all that bad about it. I love MY WIFE dearly, but on that score she’s dead wrong. I’ll go to my grave cursing the theft of innocent joy from a lovely day. I try to ignore it, and I try to keep the spirit I believe in, but they keep throwing haymakers at me and a few do connect. I keep getting up off the canvas, but it isn't easy. Some reprehensible stores have taken to opening on Thanksgiving Day itself rather than having the decency to wait until so-called Black Friday, denying their employees a well-deserved holiday. The people running these companies have no soul.

Christmas still has charm. The real importance of it, for someone like me, is spiritual, and nobody can rip that out of me unless I let them. The people I share the day with, and with whom I eat good food and exchange lovely and loving gifts, are dear to me. They still make it a wonderful day, but that frisson I spoke of earlier, that I used to have in multiples during the season, hasn’t been felt in quite a while.

************************************

The only holiday I can count upon to deliver a frisson is Thanksgiving.

(I’m trying to set the world record for frisson mentions. Am I there yet?)

I've never had a bad Thanksgiving. As a matter of fact, I’ve had nothing but good ones.

For every other holiday, I can recall a bummer. There have been New Years Eves with toothaches and New Years Days with hangovers; Washington’s Birthdays with flu; Memorial Days with sunburns; July Fourths with car accidents; Labor Days with the dread of returning to school; Halloweens with stolen candy; and even Christmases with “Dear John” letters thrown into the mix; but never a bad Thanksgiving.

(I hope I’m not a victim of selective memory. Somewhere in the past there may have been one horrible incident I’ve tucked into a corner of my mind under lock and key. If so, and you know about it, don’t tell me. I’d rather be ignorant and happy.)

One of the reasons it’s so easy to have a good Thanksgiving is that nobody’s trying to sell you anything. It’s just good company, some football, great food, and maybe a nap with your belt loosened. The biggest thing anyone can put up for sale is a bird. There are no bogus guilt trips laid on you by manufacturers trying to make you feel as though you haven’t done right by your loved ones. All you have to do, to do right by your loved ones on Thanksgiving, is show up.

Oh, the smells of Thanksgiving dinner cooking! There is no perfume in existence that matches the fragrance of turkey, stuffing, gravy, squash, turnip, sweet potatoes, hot rolls, pumpkin pie, and all of the other mouth-watering aromas that emanate from the kitchen on that day. It is the smell of pure love. The one doing the cooking isn’t doing it because he or she is guilt-ridden. It’s being done because the people who will eat the feast are near and dear; as simple and lovely as that.

MY WIFE and I have hosted Thanksgiving at our place for the past 20+ years. It is the most sublime pleasure of my year to plan that meal and then prepare it. I’m the luckiest man in my family. I get to enjoy those smells longer than anyone else. And I get the lion’s share of the leftovers, too.

I remember lovely huge tables full of food at my paternal grandparent’s apartment in Roslindale, the vegetables served in great green ceramic bowls and topped with big pats of yummy sweet butter. I remember other times of waking in my upstairs bedroom to the smell of a turkey roasting in my childhood home in Dorchester. Later, after my parent’s divorce, I ate TWO huge dinners every Thanksgiving – the first cooked by My Father and the second served at My Grandma’s in Weymouth, where I would eat with My Mother. It wasn’t easy but, since I loved both of them too much to disappoint either of them, I did my duty. I even ate a couple of pieces of pie at both places so they’d have no doubt about how much I loved them.

I try to remember what the name of the holiday calls for – the giving of thanks. I look upon my preparation and sharing of food as a sacred rite. There’s no skimping on this meal. If money’s tight, it’s a way of showing my faith in the idea that God will bring better times. Always, it’s a time to be thankful for the good people who are sharing the table with me, and also for remembering those dear souls who shared the table in past times but, for whatever reason, are no longer gathered here.

There are lovely constants at Thanksgiving. For instance, every year the Detroit Lions play football. Well, at least they try and they ought to get credit for that.

The same stories sometimes get told at the table. There's one that never fails to get mentioned, concerning turnip and a Danish friend of the family.

Seems that one year, when this Dane was a holiday guest, my grandmother was preparing the food and one of the vegetables was turnip. The fellow laughed and said, in his Danish accent, “Turnip! Ha-ha! Very funny!” and when he was asked why he was laughing, he said, “Ho-ho! Yes, the joke’s on me! That’s a very funny joke. OK, you can take it away now.” Apparently, they only served turnip to pigs in his region of Denmark. He thought it was a joke for his benefit. When he found out it was something we actually ate and enjoyed, he became somewhat indignant (if not sick to his stomach.) Every year, when I bring out the turnip, that story returns for it’s annual telling. And I love it.

When the meal is over – well, at least that part of the meal which doesn’t involve pie – I turn my attention to the end of the Lion’s game. Meanwhile, the other folks have good conversation, coffee, tea and, yes, pie. I'm a New England Patriots fan, but I root for the Lions on Thanksgiving (unless they're playing the Patriots, of course.) If the Lions win, I have a piece of pie to celebrate their good fortune. Since this rarely happens, I console myself with a piece of pie when they lose. It’s all good.

The playing of some sort of board game is generally part of the after-dinner fun. Conversation is friendly and relaxed. Football is in the background on the TV. The desserts remain on the table for anyone who wants a bite more of anything.

Soon, it gets to be late afternoon and folks start leaving. We pack up some yummy leftovers for each person to take home and then finally it’s just me and MY WIFE, all alone in the house. At that point, I do what any manly red-blooded American male would do. I take a couple of the leftover rolls, slice ‘em open, stuff them with turkey and dressing and gravy, and eat them while I watch the end of the Dallas game (and if they'd lose as often as the Lions, I'd be a happier man, but, once again, Pie!)

The evening is usually spent cleaning up at a very leisurely pace, interrupted every so often with another snack (generally rotating between a small turkey sandwich with gravy and stuffing, then another slice of pie, then some more turkey, then pie, then... you get the idea...) although we have been known, on occasion, to bring a nice meal of leftovers to some friend or another who has to work. If I'm just home and doing dishes and such, whatever football game is on TV that night accompanies the clean-up (and if I feel more like watching the game, and snacking, than I do cleaning up, the clean-up can wait until morning. This is not a day for rushing through anything.)

I wish you a Tremendously Happy Thanksgiving. Say your prayers, eat much, show love, enjoy the friends and relatives, and do yourself a favor by remembering that the stores will be open for another 32 days this year, after Thanksgiving and before Christmas, so no need to hurry.

Amen.

Uncle Jimmy

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Sun, 09 Apr 2023 00:15:00 +0000

L to R - John, Molly, Uncle Jimmy

When this blog was actually alive and kicking, so was my Uncle Jimmy.

My Uncle Jimmy died a couple of days after Christmas in 2021, age 80. Today, we laid his ashes to rest.

It was delayed for a number of reasons, chief among them being that one of Uncle Jimmy's wishes was that he and his partner of almost 50 years, John Walsh (who predeceased him) desired that the cremated remains of their many beloved pets be included in their burial. However, one lovely cat is still with the living. Rather than spend possibly several years looking at the cat, then looking at our watches while tapping our feet, it was decided that we should go ahead with the service now and let McGee (the cat) not feel as though he was holding things up by continuing to live.

Anyway, Jimmy loved this blog and often gave me good family stories to share here. I feel it's only right to mention his service here. We celebrated Jimmy and John's lives via a burial service at Forest Hills Cemetery, one of the most beautiful resting places in New England. They bought the plot decades ago. Now they are there, forever together.

As part of the service, I wrote a personal remembrance of Uncle Jimmy. I didn't totally stick to the script, but I did use most of it. I now put it here and I hope Uncle Jimmy, and John, will like being (possibly) the final entry on this blog.

UNCLE JIMMY'S EULOGY

My Uncle Jimmy was, in two ways, the coolest relative I had.

First, he was the uncle I looked up to as being totally hip. When I was a young teen, he was doing all sorts of things that made him appear awesome. Some of them were illegal, but coming from the neighborhood I came from and in the time period I was living in, that made him even more cool. It was the late 60s and early 70s, and he had shoulder length hair, a mustache, wore the latest fashions, listened to music on the cutting edge, had friends in high places (both politically and metaphorically), and could be counted on to do you a big favor if you needed one.

For instance, because of his high political connections, he secured a summer job for me with the city of Boston, at a time when I was hurting for work. Because of his other type of high connections, he got me and several of my friends tickets for my first real concert; second row seats for Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. He got those tickets directly from the promoter. He asked nothing in return from me other than a thank you.

He could be counted on to have the latest and the best of anything. He was the first person in my family to have a color TV, for example, in the 1960s, and it was top of the line. He had the best scotch - and the best weed. He was a daring pilot. And he had an almost unerring ability to spot humbugs, scams, hypes and liars. He was the hippest person in any room he entered.

The other way he was cool was in the sense of being reserved. He was, for all of his outgoing political ways, a very private person and not especially easy to get close to personally. If you knew enough about him, you understood why. He grew up at a time when his sort of lifestyle wasn't considered in any way normal. Not that he made a big secret of it; he was too cool to worry about what narrow-minded people thought of his choices. Everybody in the family knew and didn't care. But there were some situations where he considered it prudent to not be open and it no doubt contributed to him being so guarded in other ways.

Despite his cool demeanor, Jimmy was a generous person. He always offered help, if he felt someone might need it. He paid for a few things, for a few people I know of, while never expecting repayment. I admired that.

Another way he was generous – and this of course applied to John also – was in regard to animals. They loved animals and all of the many animals they took in hit the jackpot in terms of being loved and well cared for. I remember the first cat they had together. His name was Kitty Cat. Kitty Cat was a lovely purebred cat, an Abyssinian, with one giant flaw. He had one ear lopped off. Jimmy and John found him, as a kitten, in a trash barrel. The conjecture was that some heartless soul threw him away because his purebred status had been compromised with the injury to his ear. Anyway, Jimmy and John took him out of the trash, brought him home, and gave him all the love they possibly could, and Kitty Cat turned into a fine handsome big cat, extremely loving and friendly, and had a long full life because of their generosity.

Jimmy loved me, and I loved him. For whatever reason, I was just about the only Sullivan with whom he stayed in contact following the deaths of his siblings. Others made overtures to him, trying to establish relationships, but he almost always stayed aloof. I don't know why I was his chosen go-to for family, but I felt honored by it. Like I said, he spotted fakes a mile away, so it was a big compliment that he and I kept in touch so much. Jimmy didn't suffer fools gladly, so that was a compliment, also. Jimmy could be, if there's a best sense of this word, vicious. Generally, it was humorous; he'd make a joke or quip, but there was always a point and it was often that the person he was talking about was a jerk. He could be rough, and as a result it was a running joke among the Sullivans that, should Jimmy and John have separated, some wondered if we could get custody of John.

Small brag: I had a very popular blog for a number of years, and Uncle Jimmy loved it. He would call and tell me great family stories that he thought I could write up. I appreciated that, and I got a lot of material from him, some of which made its way into print on bigger stages when I had some success as a newspaper columnist. He also sent me any family ephemera he came across – photos and such, but also odd things like my father's catechism, a Sullivan heirloom of a kit for the Catholic sacrament of extreme unction, my great uncle Jim's handbook from when he was a Massachusetts state representative, political campaign buttons, and other odds and ends. He knew I'd enjoy seeing them and would treat them with some respect.

One trait Jimmy had, and I like to think I share with him, was loyalty. The most successful relationship of any in his generation in my family, was the one between he and John. Once Jimmy committed to someone or something, he was all in. You could count on his loyalty through thick and thin. Of my mother and father, and all of my aunts and uncles and their spouses, Jimmy and John's was the only relationship that lasted from start until a death. Everybody else had divorces, separations... Jimmy and John were solid and loyal. Donna and I have the second-longest relationship in our families, and maybe we'll be blessed enough to surpass the longevity of Jimmy and John.

I could go on, but just one other thing I'd like to mention in closing. Donna and I both love fruitcake. For many years, without fail, Jimmy and John would send us a fruitcake at Thanksgiving. This continued even through Jimmy's final illness. Despite both of their misgivings concerning organized religion, the fruitcake always came from the Trappist monks in Kentucky (the same ones who fashioned the urn for cremation...) We loved receiving it, enjoyed eating it, and will always be reminded of them around Thanksgiving when we don't receive that treat.

Thank you, Uncle Jim. May God bless you and John.

The Gift

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Thu, 08 Dec 2022 12:30:00 +0000

[Christmas, 1965 or thereabout]

He had ten cents left over from his original dollar, which will give you an idea of the value of the cigars and perfume. In any case, he now wanted to buy a present for his aunt.

He felt great. He was in love with the world.

He brought the gift up to the checkout and paid for it. Now there was nothing to jingle in his pockets, but that was OK. His Christmas shopping was done.

He made his way back home, enjoying the big colored lights that were on just about every house in the neighborhood, again catching (or trying to catch) snowflakes in his mouth.

*********************************************

When he got home, he took off his boots (which was always troublesome – he always seemed to leave one sock inside of a boot) and then ran upstairs to his room, to wrap this newest gift.

*******************************************

********************************************

(He went to the bathroom to do so.)

He probably would have stared at it a bit longer, but his cat came along and started playing with one of the low-hanging ornaments and that broke him out of his reverie.

He loved the cat very much and he loved watching her play - even more than he liked looking at the tree. After she failed to defeat the ornament - it still hung on the branch and she now wriggled on her back, enjoying the pine needles that had fallen - he went out to the kitchen and opened a can of cat food. Hearing the opener whirr, she came running like a shot - for a cat will take food over ornaments, every time (thus proving, once again, their innate intelligence.)

******************************************

Now it was time for mass, after which the family would head over to the aunt’s to exchange gifts, before heading off to the house of the boy's grandparents.

She said, “Oh, Jimmy, they’re just what I needed! Thank you, darling!”

She reached over and kissed him. He blushed and said, “You’re welcome.”

Never before had a package of red and green kitchen sponges brought such joy to two people.

*******************************************

True story.

My Auntie Ba is gone now, and I miss her, but her spirit lives on with me every Christmas because of the gift she gave me.

Merry Christmas!

All I Really Need to Know...

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Mon, 26 Sep 2022 11:40:00 +0000

Here it is, 2022, and I haven't published anything here in a year. I bet you thought you were rid of me.

No such luck.

Just to annoy everyone, I'm publishing what is probably my favorite piece that was rejected by editors coast-to-coast. It is entitled...

ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW

You may recall a wonderful book, written by Robert Fulghum, entitled All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. If you haven’t read it yet, I highly recommend doing so. In it, Fulghum explains that the lessons taught during his first year in school were, as it turned out, all he needed in order to live his life as a decent human being.

Those enduring lessons included such stuff as “Share everything”, “Play fair”, “Clean up your own mess” and “Don’t take things that aren’t yours”. Those are useful things to remember.

On the other hand, I’ve received some of the most valuable lessons of my life from an entirely different source – The Three Stooges.

I first started watching their very educational films at around the same time as I entered kindergarten and I discovered that Moe, Larry and Curly (and sometimes even Shemp) had many inestimably precious truths to share. For instance…

*What goes around, comes around – and it usually comes around in the form of that same guy you did something nasty to in the first reel, who said, “If I ever see you three guys again, I’ll tear you limb from limb!”

*No matter how bald you may think you are, you always have enough hair left for someone to rip out.

*You can be doing nothing more provocative than just standing around minding your own business and you still might get hit in the kisser with a pie.

*Even if you make a really good pun, somebody is likely to poke you in the eyes.

*You might have a recipe, but success isn’t guaranteed unless you truly understand the instructions. For example, if it says “Separate two eggs”, it doesn’t mean you should place them five feet apart from one another.

*If you have triple bunk beds, it’s never a good idea to put the guy who weighs the most in the top bunk.

*When you’ve checked into a hospital, if you hear “Calling Dr. Howard, Dr. Fine, Dr. Howard” come over the loudspeaker, it means the likelihood of your being cured is somewhat limited.

*Rome wasn’t built in a day. Neither was Syracuse.

*If you reach for something without really looking at it, chances are it will be alum you put in those drinks instead of powdered sugar. As a corollary, not every woman who puckers her lips is looking for a kiss.

*Spinning in a circle and saying “Woob! Woob! Woob!” is a reasonable response to almost any given situation.

*Snoring is mighty aggravating to most people if you’re the only one doing it. If, however, you and two other guys snore in unison, it’s hilarious! Also, you can prove you don’t snore by staying up all night and listening to yourself.

*If there’s a fat bald guy in the room, you probably shouldn’t play that recording of Pop Goes the Weasel unless you like being punched.

*Discretion is sometimes the better part of valor. If you run away, the worst that’s likely to happen is you’ll be shot in the bum. Then your theme music will play.

*If you don’t like someone’s answer, slapping them might fix things. On the other hand, you could end up getting a crowbar over the head. It’s a toss-up.

*If somebody shows you their fist and says, “See this?”, under no circumstances is it advisable to slap downward at it.

*Doing your laundry on a golf course isn’t a good idea. Also, when someone yells “Fore!”, if you yell back “Five!”, it isn’t likely to accomplish anything useful.

*B-A-Bay, B-E-Bee, B-I-Bicky-Bi, B-O-Bo, Bicky-Bi-Bo-B-U-Boo, Bicky-Bi-Bo-Boo.

*Even if you can run downstairs fast enough to catch a cake that fell out a window, chances are you’re going to wind up face first in the thing anyway.

*Never sit in a dentist’s chair if you’re not the patient. And, if you ARE the patient, and your buddy just had his tooth yanked by mistake, it’s never a good idea to be standing there holding a pair of pliers when he comes to.

*If you say “Niagara Falls!” to someone, you deserve whatever happens next.

*Whenever there’s anything sharp and pointy around, odds are someone will sit on it. The possibility increases exponentially if it’s your boss.

And, of course, the most important lesson of all…

*No matter how well you plan something, there is always the distinct possibility that you’ll end up being a victim of soicumstance.

Soon, with more better stuff.

(Total lie)

I Found Something I Want To Spout Off About

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Thu, 15 Apr 2021 10:15:00 +0000

Sometime earlier this year, I announced my retirement from blogging. As with many things on this blog, that was a lie.

(I would like to note, for historians with nothing better to do in the future than read this crap - and may your superiors have a favorite body part rot off for assigning you such duty - most of the lies told here were done so with no intention to deceive for personal gain. It's just that I had a tendency to exaggerate for comic effect. If you find no comic effect, then I hope it's your favorite body part that rots.)

Anyway, the reason for my returning here is to bore the hell out of you via mathematics.

I've often found entertainment by being better at math than most people. For instance, I annoy MY WIFE repeatedly during our viewings of Jeopardy via my insistence on pointing out the inability of many contestants to do simple addition and subtraction when they make their wagers during Final Jeopardy. Please understand, I'm not saying I'm a genius. I don't consider myself ultra-talented. If you pit me against any true pro at mathematics, I'll be proven a relative idiot in short order. However, the average American truly sucks at math, even the simple stuff - thus the reason so many politicians know they can get away with so much bullshit - and that's what I base my claims of superiority upon.

The stuff that entertains me most is proving how ridiculous some memes are.

For example, I spoke here ten years ago about a meme stating the Amazon rain forest was being decimated at the rate of six football fields a minute. It sounds reasonably hideous and worthy of woe until you do the math and discover six football fields a minute would be 360 football fields an hour, and 8,640 football fields each day, which translates to 3,153,600 football fields a year, which is more than 141 billion square feet, and by this time the entire world would be paved over, leaving not even a single square foot to plant your begonias, and did you ever know anyone with square feet? Of course not. Pseudo Science!

I've already put half of you asleep but here's some more.

You've no doubt been told by some well-meaning buffoon that Bill Gates will give a million dollars to every person who shares an e-mail or who posts some idiocy on Facebook (not to be redundant). Maybe you said to yourself, "Why not? What have I got to lose?" and so you inflicted it upon your innocent friends and relations. I, on the other hand, am intrigued by the math, so I do some simple multiplication and soon enough it becomes apparent that if two people share the e-mail with two people each, and so on, doubling the amount of money Bill Gates will give away with each sharing, he wouldn't have enough money to pay off everybody with a handful of jelly beans, let alone a million bucks.

That being said, we have now reached the actual point of this post, which is a breakdown of the following:

It's interesting. It's harmless. Therefore, blowing holes in it is magnificent fun.

Let's allow 30 years per generation. I think that's generous; 25 would probably be more like it, but we'll err on the side of caution in order to make this more realistic. You can do the math yourself, if you wish, but if you're like most Americans, you'll be relieved to let me do it for you.

If you keep on multiplying the number of ancestors by two with each preceding generation - and we're only doing direct ancestors; no aunts, uncles, cousins or any of that crowd - in less than 1000 years we each have more than 9 billion great-great-great-great-great-etc. ancestors. The next generation results in over 18 billion, then 36 billion, and so on, until it reaches quadrillions if you go back 1500 years and multiples of quintillions (that's a number followed by 18 zeroes) if you take it back to the year of Christ's birth. We are now talking more people - hell, more anything - than have ever lived during the entire history of the earth, so logically none of us exist. Since you weren't born, why are you reading this?

No, obviously we've all been born - you're reading this, therefore you are - so what it means is that we are all hopelessly inbred. Expecting anything aside from insanity from a group such as us is, well, insane. To be more blunt, all of my ancestors fucked all of your ancestors (and probably enjoyed the hell out of it, too.) We're all inter-related and if you hate black people or white people or brown people or yellow people or red people, you're even more of a moron than I thought you were.

OK, go back to whatever you were doing before you came here. It was probably way more entertaining and not nearly as insulting. If you enjoyed this half as much as I did, I'm twice as happy as you.

Soon, with more better stuff.

(That's one of those lies I talked about earlier. Pay no attention to it.)

2021

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Fri, 15 Jan 2021 16:53:00 +0000

Not that it matters much at this point, what with the obvious dwindling of new postings and the concurrent lack of folks showing up here with hopes of finding some, but this is my official announcement concerning the cessation of this blog.

I suppose if someday I have anything totally gnawing at my brain and I can't get anything else done without spouting off about it, I'll be back to bore the three or four people who may still be checking this site. Otherwise, we have reached the finish.

Thank you to all who came here. You made my day on far more than one occasion.

To anyone I've offended, here or elsewhere, it was not my intention to do so (unless I stated up front that it was my intention to do so.)

Here's a photo of me dressed as a piece of candy corn.

I wish you God's blessings (which He will no doubt bestow upon you without having paid any attention to me concerning them.)

Not Soon, And There Will Be No More Better Stuff.

The Gift

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Thu, 17 Dec 2020 14:01:00 +0000

[Christmas, 1965 or thereabout]

He had ten cents left over from his original dollar, which will give you an idea of the value of the cigars and perfume. In any case, he now wanted to buy a present for his aunt.

He felt great. He was in love with the world.

He brought the gift up to the checkout and paid for it. Now there was nothing to jingle in his pockets, but that was OK. His Christmas shopping was done.

He made his way back home, enjoying the big colored lights that were on just about every house in the neighborhood, again catching (or trying to catch) snowflakes in his mouth.

*********************************************

When he got home, he took off his boots (which was always troublesome – he always seemed to leave one sock inside of a boot) and then ran upstairs to his room, to wrap this newest gift.

*******************************************

********************************************

(He went to the bathroom to do so.)

He probably would have stared at it a bit longer, but his cat came along and started playing with one of the low-hanging ornaments and that broke him out of his reverie.

******************************************

Now it was time for mass, after which the family would head over to the aunt’s to exchange gifts, before heading off to the house of the boy's grandparents.

She said, “Oh, Jimmy, they’re just what I needed! Thank you, darling!”

She reached over and kissed him. He blushed and said, “You’re welcome.”

Never before had a package of red and green kitchen sponges brought such joy to two people.

*******************************************

True story.

My Auntie Ba is gone now, and I miss her, but her spirit lives on with me every Christmas because of the gift she gave me.

Merry Christmas!

Go Sit On A Snow Cone

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Tue, 18 Aug 2020 10:43:00 +0000

I just finished watching a documentary concerning the old music magazine CREEM. It was a decent attempt at capturing the spirit of the mag, full of interviews of old staffers, editors, publishers, and musicians who were also fans.

One thing that left me cold, however, was the lack of Rick Johnson. For me, Johnson was the best thing in the magazine. He was mentioned exactly once, in connection with the most famous "letter to the editor" that CREEM received.

Rick had written a scathing review of The Runaways, a group from which Joan Jett later escaped to some notoriety and success. Jett wrote a long letter to the magazine, defending the group and more-or-less challenging Rick Johnson to a fight.

Johnson's reply? “Go sit on a snow cone.”

In the documentary, the filmmakers mentioned the review, quoted from the letter, and included an interview with Joan Jett concerning the letter. However, they did NOT include Rick Johnson's reply. That is pandering bullshit and not true to the spirit of the original magazine.

Anyway, what follows here is something I wrote 13 years ago after learning of Rick Johnson's passing. I haven't written much of anything in a while, so I haven't many readers remaining, I'm sure, but I had to defend Mr. Johnson in some way.

*****************************************************************

A few days ago, I told you a little bit about a writer named Rick Johnson. Tremendously talented, woefully underappreciated, he passed away last year at the age of 56, having spent the greater part of the past 25 years managing a smoke shop and news stand in Macomb, Illinois, rather than raking in the mad bucks he should have been getting for his literary efforts.

I have an old issue of CREEM magazine in front of me. The cover date is October 1979. Rick Johnson is prominently featured in the issue. As a tribute to this man whose writing I so greatly enjoyed, I’m going to fill this space with a few bits and pieces of his stuff from that issue.

(I suspect that 28-year-old issues of now-defunct magazines are somewhat in the public domain. If this is not the case, I apologize to those who own the words and promise you that all proceeds arising from the publication of this piece will gladly be transferred into your hands upon notification of your displeasure. The money you’ll spend on postage to notify me will probably be more than you’ll get back, though, so you might want to weigh your options.)

CREEM was like most magazines, in that it had full-length pieces covering multiple pages as well as shorter bits of filler. Luckily for my purposes here, the filler was usually credited. Here’s one that Johnson wrote.

NEW YORK – In yet another move designed to keep rock writers from going overboard in their criticism of various artists, Scripps-Howard Newspapers have compiled a list of eighty-nine “red flag” words that “used innocently or truthfully, can lead to a libel suit.”

For example, if one were to refer to Carly Simon as a PROFITEERING STOOL PIGEON, Peter Frampton as a FASCIST MONEY GOUGER, Roy Thomas Baker as an INCOMPETENT ADULTERER OF PRODUCTS or Clive Davis as a SCANDAL-MONGERING, PRICE-CUTTING, ATHEISTIC KEEPER OF A DISORDERLY HOUSE, you could not only be sued for libel, but they’ll take away your black/red/yellow typewriter ribbon as well.

However, if you simply refer to these people as STUPID ASSHOLES, you’re in the clear!

From a review of PRIME TIME SUNDAY, a then-new show on NBC:

PRIME TIME SUNDAY, NBC’s latest vehicle for Tom “I-Leap-Through-The-Screen” Snyder and his Kama Sutra eyebrows, is without a doubt the worst new program to hit the screen since ALL STAR SECRETS. With all the flow of a local news show experiencing technical difficulties during the hog quotations, Snyder leads a bumbling crew of network second-stringers through a poky dodo maze of disconnected live interviews, features that bombed in PARADE four years ago and trademark Snyder ad-libs that carry the approximate humor value of comfortable driving weather.

A review of Queen’s latest album at the time, LIVE KILLERS:

The first thing people will want to know about Queen is: can they reproduce their “sound” in person? Well sure, just give that great moment in wiggle-voice, “Bohemian Rhapsody,” a spin. Freddie starts it off by singing the opening lines and then the band leaves the stage and puts on the actual studio recording for the audience to figure out. The liner notes call this a “typically uncompromising” move on their part. My own notes call this “the biggest heap of bullshit since that truck full of moo overturned on the highway.”

The second thing folks want to know about Queen is: why does the rest of the band put up with Freddie and his pigeon-butt? Good question, candy ass, but hell, take a gander at co-boss Brian May. If Truman Capote were God, Freddie and Brian would be his salt and pepper shakers.

The third thing congressional fact-finding committees are currently investigating is: what are the words that are bleeped out of the intro to “Death On Two Legs?” Freddie goes, “This is about a (BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP) …” What do you think he said? This is about a CHICKEN-HAIRED MEMBER OF THE ROLLING STONES? This is about a MOVING EXPERIENCE I ONCE HAD IN A GARDEN HOSE SHOWROOM? Or possibly, this is about a MINUTE AND A HALF?

...

The last thing anybody should WANT to know about Queen is this: should I spend my hard-earned pimping money on this double album, or save it for something I can really use, like a dead weasel?

Have the weasel gift-wrapped.

Finally, I give you excerpts from the cover story written by Johnson, IS HEAVY METAL DEAD? (Subtitle: Last Drum Solo at the Power Chord Corral)

As hard as it may be to believe at this late date (check your calendar), some cricket dicks still don’t have the slightest clue as to what heavy metal is, much less what it’s ALL ABOUT. Like all other dumb labels for music (New Wave, Southern Rock, $7.98) it’s nearly impossible to define and none of the groups ever really fits the definition anyway. So the next time somebody stops you on the street and asks, “Hey, Bernice, what IS Heavy Metal?” it’s generally just best to say that Ted Nugent IS and Horslips ISN’T; “Whole Lotta Love” IS and “Mandy” – well, if it gets that far, just tell ‘em to go stick their ear to a lawn mower and LISTEN.

Heavy Metal is rock ‘n’ roll that gives your ears the urge to make voodoo dolls out of your stereo speakers. It’s as LOUD as having an eviction notice nailed to your forehead, as SCREECHY as a rusty craniotomy saw in the hands of Moe and so HEAVY that it can sometimes only be listened to while curled into a modified gagging dolphin position. Add some lyrics that are as memorable as your most unforgettable blackout and production values that vary between thin and asleep-at-the-wheel, and you achieve a certain transcendental cruddiness that can make grown men and women jump up on aluminum folding chairs and holler IN-A-GADDA-DA-VIDA!!

[He goes on to explain the form, and its charms, a bit more. Then he bemoans the fact that it’s becoming harder and harder to find the good stuff. We pick it up as he looks at individual performers or groups and calculates the chances of their being able to produce anything worth listening to in the future.]

LED ZEPPELIN

... made the unfortunate mistake of releasing THE perfect HM album, numero II, which had more steaming chunks of white-hot metal than a burning stove dump. After this stigmatizing flash of dumdum genius, there truly was no place to go but downhill, a task they engaged upon with characteristic zeal. Lately, the lemon grower’s delight have made an effort at some basic home improvements, resulting in music nearly as stimulating as a tire fire. This is one hot air device that’s never gonna leave the ground again, particularly since old Crisco lungs sounds like he’s singing through a fish tank filter.

REO SPEEDWAGON

... they’re so damn pedestrian I’m surprised they don’t wear WALK/DON’T WALK signs around their necks. Catch ‘em live sometime and you too can experience the emotions of a white line on pavement.

WISHBONE ASH

... a rhythm section as heavy as a narcoleptic five-year-old tapping on a tenement banister with a chicken bone…

BLACK SABBATH

... have lately speeded up their unpartitioned mung heaps in a senseless effort to “get with it.” Forget it, chumps, you were always at least 40 m.p.h. BEHIND IT and that’s why you were great. Since their material is the very epitome of a Grave Disservice, I’d go along with the guy on FLASH GORDON who complained to the king of the Clay People, “I’m sick and tired of gettin’ pushed around by a bunch of mudpies.”

BAD COMPANY

I think Paul Rodgers’ old band Free played the leading role in dead-ending the HM approach, with their slowed-down hay rotters that dribbled along like blood exiting the nose of an O.D.ing downer freak. BadCo seams intent on carrying on that tradition with all the imagination of a slipcover. Their latest LP, DESOLATION ANGELS, does show signs of life, but then so does my dead underwear pile.

URIAH HEEP

Once a thundering pieplate full of swandive bass throbs and back-projected keyboards so cheesy that the Heep were named The Dairy Farmers’ Friend, this group has since been reduced to Ken Hensley’s plaything. I wish somebody’d get him some Colorforms or something before he breaks Rod Stewart's record for most consecutive indistinguishable LPs.

MONTROSE

Is this now, or was it ever, an actual group? Ronnie M. has his hot dog in so many campfires you never know what to expect… I wish Mr. Montrose would either pick the crud out of his teeth or stop blocking the mirror.

STATUS QUO

… they make SLADE look like JEOPARDY champs…

THIN LIZZY

… Plagued by personnel shake-ups, untimely illnesses and a disturbing trend toward allowing saxophone players near their studio, I’m not sure whether to go fluff up the pillow on their deathbed or hang in there and wait for Phil Lynott to bring the snakes BACK to Ireland.

AC/DC

… make Black Sabbath sound like nerf Heavy Metal. Great stuff, comparable to cleaning out a septic tank with a toothbrush.

NAZARETH

Used up all their material on two fine early LPs (LOUD ‘N’ PROUD, HAIR OF THE DOG) and have been dragging Riff River ever since for new bodies.

RUSH

Though originally labeled as the Canadian Led Zep (heaven forbid), Rush cranked out a couple goodies before they turned to mini-series about futuristic Alex Trebek types. It’s also hard to ignore the voice of Geddy Lee which sounds like snip ‘n’ fix time at the kennel.

VAN HALEN

One of the very few promising new practitioners of slash and burn agriculture… The Netherlands-bred Van Halen brothers somehow managed to avoid the Dutch national character (twerpyness) and singer David Roth howls like he left something stuck in a dike as well.

JUDAS PRIEST

Sometimes referred to as the poor man’s Blue Oyster Cult, these limeheads gun their acid tractors faster and louder, but with all the imagination of Naval Jelly. Casper the Friendly Ghost in leatherette.

GODZ

... both their albums sound like they were recorded in a fire hydrant.

RUNAWAYS

Their vocals recapitulate the history of minor mouth pain…

QUEEN

Some of their earlier stuff briefly filled the Led Zep gap, but their last couple of albums packed all the wallop of a wet tea bag. Excellent background music for looking over wallpaper samples…

There will never be a collection of Rick Johnson’s stuff published – unless I hit some sort of mega-lottery.

(NOTE FROM 2020 - That's a lie. There was a retrospective of some of his stuff published. If you enjoyed Rick, it's worth your time. IMVHO, it doesn't include his very best stuff, but... anyway, here it is, if you're so inclined https://www.amazon.com/Rick-Johnson-Reader-Squeems-Thudpies/dp/0978915607/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=the+rick+johnson+reader&qid=1597747333&s=books&sr=1-1)

It’s a shame, really. He had a unique voice, and some more famous writers – most notably Dave Barry – cited him as a major influence.

Rest in peace, Rick. I think that, outside of Twain, you may have made me laugh out loud more often than any other writer during my teen years. Thanks, man.

Mom

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Sun, 10 May 2020 19:57:00 +0000

May 16th is My Mom's birthday. This is May 10th, Mothers Day.

This is a rerun, of course. Faithful readers, of which there are probably three or four remaining even though I'm not sure why, might have seen it 6 or 7 times before. If you're new here, however, ignore those previous two sentences. It's all brand new and spiffy and surprisingly delightful! Anyway, whether you've seen it before or not, I expect you to read every word of it. It's about My Mom, damn it, and it's the least you can do.

Being the crummy son that I am (despite being a very sharp dresser, as seen above) this is pretty much the best present she will be getting for either day, although I did give her something for Mothers Day and I will be giving her something for her birthday. However, one of the reasons I adore My Mom is because she's OK with my seeming ingratitude. And, if she is, I don't expect any guff from the likes of you.

Cripes, I'm really not being very nice to you. You probably like me a lot less than you did when you first got here. Oh, well. My Mother loves me. And that's the point of this.

No, wait. The point is that I love My Mother. Even if I don't make it readily apparent (Ha! A parent!) by doing anything more than re-printing the same tribute to her that I've published several times before except I've thrown in a few new words here and there. Happy Mothers Day and Happy Birthday, Mom! With each passing year, it becomes more obvious why I'm an only child - and the world thanks you!

My Mom always goes out of her way to have eclairs for me on my birthday. Meanwhile, I... Did I mention she always has eclairs for me on my birthday? Yes, she does. Someday, I'll let her eat one.

My Mom and My Stepfather, Bill, both getting stoned, as they usually did. No, no, no. This was at the rehearsal dinner for the wedding of MY WIFE and myself. Knowing the two of us, they had every good reason to get soused, but they didn't. Bill was a wonderful man and I miss him dearly.

My Mom, showing off the acting skills that have won her numerous Tonys, Oscars, Emmys, and Bills. Hah! She was married to two guys named Bill, see? It's like I almost made a joke there, if any of you knew. I won't embarrass My Mom by talking about the Tonys or Oscars, and the less said about the Emmys, the better.

That's My Mom on the left. I wasn't born yet.

I'll shut up now. Here's the stuff I wrote a few years ago and which I'm trotting out here again.

[My Mother, left, and her sister, Jeanne, Easter 1950]

You know how some people have a birthday on or around Christmas and it kind of gets lost? It just sort of gets melded into the larger holiday and that person gets a little cheated out of two special days? My Mom's birthday is like that. She was born on May 16th, so her birthday always falls within a couple days of Mothers Day. As a result, some people believe she gets the short end of things from me.

However, I'll tell you that my mother isn't all that worried about it. A shallow person she is not. She is very intelligent and she understands the situation. This is not to say that she wouldn't want two parties or two bunches of gifts or two of whatever; everybody likes twice as much good stuff if they can get it. But she understands. And I love her all the more for understanding that I love her just as much, even though I sometimes may not show her how much twice in the same week.

You may or may not "get" everything I write here, but she will and that's what matters. These are mainly just short fond memories of times I treasure; times I had with my mother and things we did together. The greater parts of them are from my childhood. So are the pictures, which look the way they do because I only barely know how to use a scanner and photoshop. If I waited until I knew what I was doing before publishing, this space would be blank for about a decade.

I suppose it makes sense to start with the usual Mom-type stuff.

She wiped my tears and bandaged my scraped knees and kissed my boo-boos and made them better. She vacuumed and made the beds. She did the laundry - early on with an actual washtub and scrub board and wringer - and she hung the clothes to dry on the clothesline in the backyard (or, in the winter, on a clothesline we had strung in the cellar) and a bit later we got a dryer. She did the ironing while watching Loretta Young and Mike Douglas. She was almost always ironing when I got home from school, it seemed.

She nursed me through all the usual illnesses and gifted me with my first copy of MAD magazine during one of them, and thank you for trusting me at such a young age with such revolutionary material, Mom. She put patches on my pants, as I needed them.

(Does anybody put patches on pants anymore?)

She gave me eggnog to drink for breakfast - an actual egg stirred into a big glass of milk, perhaps with chocolate syrup. Those were the days when it was considered healthy to feed your child eggs and milk every day, even raw eggs - maybe especially raw eggs. She gave me vitamins.

(One time, I decided that if a single vitamin tablet was good for you, then taking a whole bottle might turn me into Superman. Mom was the one who called the doctor.)

She packed my lunchbox with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, slices of apples or oranges, usually a cookie or two, and always a thermos of milk.

(How many thermoses did I break? Many. You'd drop one of the things and hear that shattering of the insides and you knew without checking that your milk now had big shards of glass in it. Mom always bought me a new one.)

She made dinners of swordfish or fish sticks or tuna casserole. My Dad did much of the cooking, and he hated fish, but when he wasn't around Mom made sure I got enough of the seafood that I loved. She would buy salmon and tuna just for me to eat straight from the can - something I still do often, although now I might spoon it out onto a plate first. She made me macaroni and plain tomatoes, still one of my favorite simple dinners - and one that, as it turns out, is quite healthy.

We would do some cooking together. We made peanut butter cookies. We made bread pudding. She would bake a cake and I would graciously help out by licking the bowl clean. I was always glad to do my part.

Sometimes, we would go out to eat, just Mom and me. We might go to the Liberty Deli in Lower Mills, or perhaps we would end up at a restaurant called Colstone's in downtown Boston. Both of these would be places we visited after we had been to church to say a prayer and light a candle. The Deli after Saint Gregory's; Colstone's after Arch Street. She would put a coin in the poor box at church and let me light the votive candle. She taught me to pray and she taught me reverence for holy places. She gave me a great sense of God as benevolent and likely to listen to me. It was, and is, a good thing.

She sang, always. She loved to sing; still does. She sang standards around the house. She had a lovely voice; still does. She and her sister, Jeannette, actually had their own radio show when they were teenagers, on WJDA in Quincy. The story, as I remember it, was that they had spoken to the station manager and complained that there wasn't enough programming for teenagers. He told them that if they thought so, maybe they could come up with some themselves. They said, "OK" and went on the air. Pretty gutsy stuff, that.

I owe my livelihood to my Mom.

[2018 Editorial Comment: Oddly enough, even with losing my job as a voice-over artist and producer in 2013, this next paragraph still works. I have gone from one job with which it fits - announcing, and voice-over work, and producing commercial recordings - to another that I'm trying to make a go at - writing, fact-checking - that requires most of the same skillset.]

Even before I went into kindergarten, she was teaching me to read. I was always the best reader in my class in school. I am still one of the best readers I know and I work with professional readers every day. Without that early acquisition of knowledge, provided by Mom, I wouldn't have the job I have today. I am very grateful for that.

She taught me an absolute love for the written word and she taught me that acquiring knowledge doesn't have to be a drag. She would buy me books at every possible opportunity. I still have a half-shelf of Golden Library Of Knowledge books, which she bought for me - one at a time - from a store downtown every two or three weeks. I learned about dinosaurs and the planets and insects and the elements and animals from far off lands, and learned about them before I had to learn about them in school. I glided through much of elementary school because my Mom gave me such an enormous head start.

While I was in school, she kept a scrapbook. It is in my possession now. Entitled "Jimmy's School Years", it is an amazingly embarrassing collection of inept crayon drawings, declining-in-quality-as-I-moved-into-high-school report cards, class photos (who are half these people?), and other assorted ephemera from my times at the Gilbert Stuart, Boston Latin, the Woodrow Wilson, Boston Latin (again), and finally, Boston Tech. Grades K through 12 wrapped up in one overstuffed segmented package. While it is embarrassing, even for me to look at in private, I am so very thankful she did it.

I remember something I wasn't thankful for and which non-thankfulness I have been ashamed of ever since. One day, when I was perhaps four or five, Mom came home from a trip downtown and she had a small present for me. It was these two small replicas of phonograph records, one reading "YES" on the tiny label in the middle, and the other "NO". I don't know what their actual purpose was, but I suspect they were part of some advertising gimmick. I seem to remember that they came from Filene's Basement, but I may be mistaken.

Anyway, she had had a small little nice thought when handed them by whomever - "I'll bring these home and maybe Jimmy would like to play with them". My Mom came in and handed them to me, saying something to the effect of she wasn't sure if I wanted these but, if I did, I could have them. I behaved like a bratty little shit and said I didn't want them; why would I want them?; something entirely ungrateful. Maybe I was expecting something else from her for some reason? I don't know.

(Silly thing to remember, but I do. And I am ashamed about it. I was ungrateful for a gift given with love. I'd almost guarantee my Mom doesn't have the slightest idea what I'm talking about. She remembers good stuff about me and forgets bad stuff. Well, I apologize anyway, Mom, and now I feel better.)

Well, you see, I'm getting into small weird things here and, if I keep on like this, it will be a book before long and even then it won't feel like enough. In the interests of getting this thing published by her actual birthday, I'm going to just list a few things now, things that - if you aren't my Mom - may well sound bizarre or psychotic or both. She'll read each and every one, slowly and lovingly, and have memories - perhaps many memories, and strong - conjured by each.

*******************************************************************

You were the savior of Davy and the unfortunate bearer of bad news concerning Tippy.

You were Sugar's midwife, twice, and every cat's best friend, always.

You were the teacher and player of Fish, Casino, Rummy 500, Chinese Checkers.

You were my pass to the cafeteria at Prudential and then to shuffleboard in the employee lounge afterwards.

You are the gatekeeper of the "For Now" room.

You were the grower of the rose bush, the tiger lilies and my willow tree.

You gave me a box of kitchen matches and a bowl of water.
You were the magician who made stars appear on my bedroom ceiling.

You allowed my jumps down the stairs and piled the pillows to land on.

You put up with marbles in the bathtub.

You made me believe that the second half of The Wizard Of Oz was in glorious color even though I was watching it on a black-and-white television.

You came to see me play at McCarthy's and you actually stayed through the second set.

You were the buyer of South Station bowling.

Your room had the jewelry box filled with shiny things and a Kennedy/Johnson campaign button, the atomizer, the radio that played Jess Cain every morning, and sunbeams that never were as warm after you left.

You were the person with me as I watched The Flintstones, The Addams Family, Camp Runamuck, Hank, Bewitched, That Girl, Fractured Flickers, The Hathaways, It's About Time and I'm Dickens, He's Fenster. At the very least, three of those were shows you could barely stand, but you watched them with me anyway.

You brought me to a brave radical church and I gained a new circle of friends.

You introduced me to MY WIFE.

You were the saver of newspapers - "Kennedy Assassinated", "Man Walks On Moon", "Red Sox Win Pennant" - and I wish to hell I had been the saver of them, too.

You were the person I reported the Dow Jones to every night. Why? I haven't the foggiest notion.

You were the person who brought me the news of a death of a person I knew; the first death I actually felt and understood the finality of. "Ma died", you said. And you held me close and I knew that in this world where people I had imagined as permanent were not, your love was.

You are possibly the fairest person in the world. At the very least, you always listen to everybody and give serious consideration to their thoughts and feelings. I've inherited some of that, but not nearly enough.

You were my traveling companion on the railway in the sky that took us to Ma and Pa's for Easter.

You are the child at heart who played miniature golf and skeeball, took swings in the batting cage, ate ice cream sundaes and candy bars, and did assorted other young things with great relish and panache, on your 65th birthday.

All things considered, you're probably the best mother I've ever had.

(Hey, I got some of this sense of humor from you, so stop rolling your eyes.)

Something like this could go on forever, but I'll close with this:

I've described a large number of idiotic episodes of my life on this blog and will no doubt relate many more. I've done things that were illegal, immoral, stupid, and that otherwise seemingly reflect badly on my upbringing. Every single one of those things came about through my own volition.

Meanwhile, every good quality I possess - and every good thing I've ever done - came about as a direct result of how I was raised. That may sound like hyperbole, but it's the absolute stone cold truth.

Thanks, Mom.

The Gift

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Mon, 23 Dec 2019 23:58:00 +0000

[Christmas, 1965 or thereabout]

He had ten cents left over from his original dollar, which will give you an idea of the value of the cigars and perfume. In any case, he now wanted to buy a present for his aunt.

He felt great. He was in love with the world.

He brought the gift up to the checkout and paid for it. Now there was nothing to jingle in his pockets, but that was OK. His Christmas shopping was done.

He made his way back home, enjoying the big colored lights that were on just about every house in the neighborhood, again catching (or trying to catch) snowflakes in his mouth.

*********************************************

When he got home, he took off his boots (which was always troublesome – he always seemed to leave one sock inside of a boot) and then ran upstairs to his room, to wrap this newest gift.

*******************************************

********************************************

(He went to the bathroom to do so.)

He probably would have stared at it a bit longer, but his cat came along and started playing with one of the low-hanging ornaments and that broke him out of his reverie.

******************************************

Now it was time for mass, after which the family would head over to the aunt’s to exchange gifts, before heading off to the house of the boy's grandparents.

She said, “Oh, Jimmy, they’re just what I needed! Thank you, darling!”

She reached over and kissed him. He blushed and said, “You’re welcome.”

Never before had a package of red and green kitchen sponges brought such joy to two people.

*******************************************

True story.

My Auntie Ba is gone now, and I miss her, but her spirit lives on with me every Christmas because of the gift she gave me.

Merry Christmas!

Back In The Saddle

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Thu, 05 Dec 2019 13:43:00 +0000

Recently, I was asked to do some professional voice-over work. Since I hadn't done any in (mumble, mumble) years, it was a pleasant surprise.

Anyway, I did it and here is the result. The intro and closing credits are read by me.

https://soundcloud.com/planetcarnival/king-cakes-moon-pies-food-fights?fbclid=IwAR2hI81V3uHXgQZBrQhLAkPKcfqePF_cwv2gB2pV6g1vzNdUfCDEXSOtLQs

It's fun stuff. If anyone else has work for me, drop me a line at suldog@aol.com

My thanks to Planet Carnival for using me.

Soon, with more better stuff (maybe).

9/23/19

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Mon, 23 Sep 2019 20:45:00 +0000

I just went through all of the comments on this site that needed me to either OK them or delete them as garbage. Of the 491 made since my last posting, four of them were actual comments from people who cared. So, to help those people, here is my latest health update.

I'm fine. I'm through every horrible thing imaginable and now feel much better. Thank you for your concern!

I have health issues - you don't get a quadruple bypass just for the fun of it - but with medication, exercise, a better diet and (most important, I think) no cigarettes for the past eight months, I feel at least as good as I did when I was 50.

(I'm 62, in case you were wondering.)

I have little desire to write now, however, so I doubt you'll see too much more here. There may be something if I get really ticked off or there is a horrendous life change, but I wouldn't waste too much time coming here.

To the many people who have made my days by leaving their kind comments, I thank you from the bottom of my (repaired) heart. God bless you.

The following is doubtful...

Soon, with more better stuff.

Cabbage, part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Mon, 15 Apr 2019 11:14:00 +0000

Part One detailed my medical concerns from the end of January through the beginning of March. Now we hit the major operation (or at least what I remember about it.)

MARCH 4

Surgery was scheduled for March 5th. Donna and I were relaxing at home, watching Jeopardy I think, when my eyes started going blurry again. I thought, "Oh, no... I want to enjoy my final night home, but am I having another stroke?"

Rather than taking a chance, I told Donna what was happening. She immediately phoned for an ambulance and I was carted off to Mount Auburn again. So much for a final restful night.

By the time we arrived, my vision was normal again. The guess was it was a TIA or Transient Ischemic Attack - a mini-stroke. I was glad it was gone but now I had to spend another night in the hospital. Folks were good. They made up a nice bed for Donna so she could stay with me and they gave me drugs to sleep.

MARCH 5

Here's where things get fuzzy. I honestly remember very little about the day of the operation.

They must have given me very relaxing drugs. I recall a visit from the hospital chaplain, which MY WIFE arranged at my request. She was a nice woman, but that's all I remember. I think I remember being taken to the operating room, but I'm truly not sure. Many hours later, I awoke in my room in intensive care. From there, it just gets blurrier.

I recall MY WIFE visiting me and me saying "Go away..." to her because I LOVE HER and I saw no reason for her to be hanging around with me in no shape to converse or anything else useful. MY MOM and my stepsister Diane visited. I spoke to them both for about three minutes but fell asleep. MY WIFE visited again even though I apparently told the nurses not to let her in. I wanted no one, not even her, to see me in such a weak state.

Understand, this all takes place in one 24-hour period. However, I truly thought over a week had passed, at least, and maybe 10 days. My sense of time was destroyed by my waking and falling back asleep so often. I'm sure the morphine or dilaudid or other pain meds had an effect. When I finally asked someone how long it had been since the operation, I expected to hear "10 days" or even more. When the answer came back, "Yesterday", I didn't believe it at first. I honestly thought it was a joke.

MARCH 6 - MARCH 9

Big blur of bad sleep (always being interrupted by a nurse for some test so thus never more than 30 minutes at a pop.) Lots of medications, lots of pain. Trying to cough up phleghm under doctor's orders, painful as hell. They give you a pillow to hold against your chest to absorb some of the pain, but it still hurts like absolute Hell. When you do get some up, it's generally foul - green, gray, yellow, nasty - but you feel like you accomplished something!

I was hooked up to two or three different IVs at all times, plus oxygen. and had a hospital jonny that covered three-quarters of me. It sucked trying to get comfortable enough to sleep. Usually, I ended up just the least uncomfortable I could manage (and this despite wonderful pain killers.)

I had a huge scar; top of my chest running down to a few inches above my belly button. I wouldn't look at it unless I was forced to do so (change of clothes, sponge bath). My bones were cut through, of course, now held together by wire and tape. Coughing was incredibly painful. They knew the pain was brutal, so I was given the strongest opioid drugs available - dilaudid, morphine, oxy.

The two worst nights of my life were as follows:

1 - I had to spend one whole evening and night with no liquid whatsoever. I'm still not sure why. It was torture. My mouth and tongue and lips were swollen and cracked and I couldn't sleep more than a few minutes all night without being woken up by my dry throat and mouth and lips. When they finally allowed me some cracked ice, it was heaven

2 - The other night of torture was when they put something in my gut to try to suck up extra air/gas in there. I never saw the instrument but I think it was the size of a small ballpoint pen. It was inserted into my nose and I was told to make like I was swallowing to get it to go down into my belly. Totally unnatural and uncomfortable.

I probably came close to killing myself because of that thing. I was groggy after a few hours of it and I decided I'd had enough. I removed it myself. It was attached by some sort of cord or tube. I pulled it up and out of my stomach, then out of my mouth. When the nurse came in a few minutes later she was amazed. She scolded me for doing something so stupid. She said I could have died if it became disconnected and floated around my gut (or something like that.) I was happy as hell to be rid of it, though. That was the worst treatment I was awake for.

Everything else was just normal torture.

Did I mention that I had a catheter the whole time in ICU? Well, I did. It was fine, in that I didn't have to think about peeing, but it was creepy because I had never had one before in my life. On March 9, when I was transferred to a stepdown unit, I asked for it to be taken out. They did so and I resumed my normal life peeing.

Previous to that day, I had the most humiliating moment of my entire life. There's no easy way to say it, so... I shit myself.

I was in bed and I felt it coming. I tried to get to the toilet but I wasn't able to move fast enough (I was still only taking a few steps at a time.) It just dropped out of me onto the floor, soft and smelly. Some got on me. I was physically unable to clean it up myself - I couldn't bend down and so forth without passing out - so I had to ring for the nurse.When she came, I had to say, "I'm so ashamed. I shit myself and I need to be cleaned up."

The nurses were all magnificent and caring and NEVER made me feel belittled no matter what I asked of them. She cleaned it up, then undressed me and sponged me down, gave me a fresh jonny and never said a word that would have made me feel bad.

MARCH 9 - MARCH 13

I was finally moved from ICU into a regular room. Not too much had changed. I was still only taking very short walks down the corridor and back. The pain wasn't significantly less at first, though it ebbed a bit with each day. My overwhelming desire was to get the hell out of the hospital. As nice as everyone was, I wanted to be home where I could sleep hours and hours without somebody waking me up to take blood, have an x-ray, test me for other vital signs, etc.

Finally, we were told I was going to be released. After receiving voluminous instructions on how to handle myself, what drgug to get and take daily (sometimes twice daily), follow-up tests at the hospital and other places, I got dressed (which was much more of a chore than I imagined - took me ten minutes with help from MY WIFE) was put in a wheelchair and taken downstairs. We waited for a cab, having no able driver among us.

(Home, next, in a few days. Thanks for reading.)

Chronology of Cabbage*

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Fri, 12 Apr 2019 16:52:00 +0000

*CABG (pronounced "cabbage") is medical shorthand for my heart operation. I like the vegetable and resent having to think of my operation every time March 17 rolls around.

This is the timeline, with some details, of my open heart surgery. If I leave anything out that you want to know about, just ask.

JANUARY 30 (?)

I believe this was the day I had a minor stroke that robbed me of much of my peripheral vision on the left side.

I did not think I had a stroke. Everything I heard about strokes told me to check my face, hands, lips, limb strength, etc., and not a single word about vision. So, I went about my business expecting this would clear up (I had a previous experience a couple of years earlier when something like this had happened and taking a nap allowed me to wake up refreshed and 100%. This time, I woke up still blurry on one side.)

Since I still had no idea it was a stroke, I called and made an eye appointment. I was thoroughly checked by my eye doctor and no eye problems found (except for loss of peripheral vision in the left eye, of course) and she suggested I contact a regular doctor.

JANUARY 31

Made an emergency appointment with a doctor. MY WIFE, of course, helped with all of this since I am helpless with doctors, not having seen one for anything in at least 20 years. Doctor examined me and scheduled me for MRI on Saturday following.

Later that night, after we got home, call came from doctor re-scheduling MRI for next day instead of Saturday (which was two days away, so now I knew they thought it was serious.)

FEBRUARY 1

Had MRIs, which is scary. You're slid inside this tube that is very close fitting, told to lie very still and have horrible sounds bombard you for 45 minutes. First time they slid me in, I immediately rang the panic buzzer for them to slide me out. I asked them to call MY WIFE. They did. She came and put a hand on my ankle for the duration, giving me a lifeline. Thanks to her, I got through the rest of it OK.

Turns out I had a stroke. The MRI photos showed I had two of them - one recently and another a few years back possibly. Also I was shown to have had two heart attacks I was unaware of.

Yay.

I was sent, by ambulance, to Mount Auburn Hospital in Cambridge (near Watertown) to stay overnight and have tests.

FEBRUARY 1 - FEBRUARY 5

So I spent four nights in the hospital being tested and given all sorts of new meds. Since I had never been prescribed ANYTHING before, every drug they gave me was new. Lower cholesterol, regulate heartbeat, thin blood, anti-anxiety (I enjoyed that), and about five others. I went from 0 drugs to 8 or 9 overnight.

Every test anyone gave me in person - press my fingers, follow this flashlight with your eyes, smile, whistle, whatever to do with stroke symptoms - I passed magnificently. Every time, following one of these testings, I fully expected to be released the next day and sent home to live normally. However, every one of these tests was followed by CT Scan, MRI, other mechanical testing, x-rays, whatever, and EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THESE CAME BACK WITH THE WORST POSSIBLE RESULT.

I'm generally an optimist, but I knew without a doubt where this was headed. I had dreaded the possibility of open heart surgery ever since My Dad had it in the late 80s. At the time, I had been the only one to take care of him (only child, he was divorced) and it was miserable. Before and after that operation, he was two entirely different people. Before: Robust, totally self-assured, unafraid of almost anything. After: Tired, not wanting to do anything, no desire for most things.

As it turned out, I was right. As each test came back, the doctors spoke about operations until finally they said I should have open heart bypass surgery as soon as possible. I was devastated. It was my biggest fear become reality.

FEBRUARY 5

Released from the hospital, which was nice. I was given some fuzzy idea of when the surgery would take place. As it turned out, it was a month away, March 5. They wanted to do it as soon as possibile, since they thought I was in danger of dying, but they also wanted to be sure I wouldn't have another stroke during the operation so they had to wait.

FEBRUARY 6 - MARCH 3

Had some further scattered tests, kept up on new medications, tried my best to compartmentalize my life and ignore what was coming. Best thing to come of it was quitting smoking after 48 years. I did so in January and have kept it up, Thank God. I can't even imagine how horrible this would have been if I was still smoking.

(Continued with the operation itself, soon. Thanks for listening.)

.

I'm Alive

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Sat, 06 Apr 2019 15:53:00 +0000

Where it happened... Good folks.

The operation, so I am told, was a success. I was going to have a double coronary bypass but they liked the looks of things so much whne they got in there, they decided to make it a quadruple.

Yay.

Worst thing I've ever been through, so far. If there's worse coming, I'd rather just check out.

Anyway, I'm getting better - S-L-O-W-L-Y - and maybe I'll feel normal (or better?) by May.

I could talk about all the horrible things - truly nightmarish things - that went down in hospital, but I won't for now. It was all for my good; I know that. Just wanted everyone to know I m still alive and expecting to get better. I won't be writing much - no desire at the moment.

Love all of your cards and letters and e-mails and little gifts and pleasant jokes and flowers. Hate the typos I have to go back and correct in every sentence, so I'm done for now.

Love you. God bless.

Jim
XXXOOO

Final Pre-Operation Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Fri, 01 Mar 2019 23:42:00 +0000

Surgery is now firmly scheduled for Tuesday, March 5th.

My birthday is Saturday, March 2nd, and it's one of those odd birthdays in that I was actually born on a Saturday, sometime around 9:30 in the morning as I recall reading someplace.

In any case, it was nice of the surgeons to let me actually turn 62 before cutting me open. My Father was 62 when he died and even though my general habits of health haven't been tremendously better than his, I do believe my having played sports for about 20 years longer and carrying about 20 pounds less around my middle should have been worth something in longevity. We'll see.

Barring anything of an amazing nature, this will be the last blog post before the operation and quite possibly the last one after it for quite some time. If you want any updates, try Facebook.

https://www.facebook.com/jim.sullivan.1654

I expect MY WIFE will post as needed.

Love you all. Thanks for the prayers.

Jim
xxxooo

Latest News

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Tue, 26 Feb 2019 03:11:00 +0000

Had a visit with my cardiologist today. All is pretty much the same.

I left some of you with an incorrect impression last time. I thought today - the 25th - was my time for surgery. It was not. I am still not operated upon. My apologies for misleading you.

The surgery should come sometime in March. I still don't know the date. My guess would be around the 12th but it could be earlier and it could be later. My cardiologist, the very nice Dr. Maggs, would do the surgery now if he had more confidence in my not stroking out while under the knife. Therefore, I will continue with my Holter monitor, get the results from that sometime in early to mid-March, meanwhile taking a much higher dosage of high blood pressure meds than I was started on (since my HBP is still H).

I have also been given a slightly higher scrip for anxiety, thank you.

That's about it. As soon as I find out the date for sure, I'll tell you.

Soon.

The Coxswain Says...

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Thu, 07 Feb 2019 19:11:00 +0000

Stroke! Stroke!

That's my not very clever way of telling you I suffered a stroke last week (or, as it was said of my Aunt Anna back in the day of weird medical terminology, I took a shock.)

I awoke one day last week to find that my vision was compromised. I had (and still have) a blur of everything to my lower left side.

I found it odd but not "OH MY GOD!!!" alarming. I had a similar experience a couple of years ago, wherein I had what I would call "fragmented" vision in my left eye. At that time, I felt a little tired and I attributed it to that. I took a nap and awoke with it having returned to normal. Not so much this time. It did not go away after a couple of hours but I still was not horribly worried. I had none of the other things I associated with having had a stroke. No weakness in limbs, no facial distortion, I could smile, whistle, move everything just fine, had no trouble understanding language or speaking. Therefore, I assumed it was just something wrong with my eye. I went to see my eye doctor. I suspected it might somehow be a detached retina.

She performed every test available and there was nothing wrong with my eyes physically. The only test that came back with less than good result was one for peripheral vision acuity. That showed what I already knew - I now had a big blind spot on my left side, lower quadrant. All other vision was OK.

To make a long story short, I followed up - a day later - with a visit to a regular doctor. He ran a few tests and scheduled me for a series of MRIs on Saturday (two days later). However, his ofice called back to our home and said he wanted me to get the MRIs done more quickly, the next day. And so I did. The results showed that I had suffered a stroke. In addition, I apparently had also had a stroke some time earlier in my life, perhaps associated with that other vision incident.

I was taken by ambulance from the MRI site to Mount Auburn Hospital in Watertown, checked in, and spent the next four days undergoing various tests. They started me on five different medications for high blood pressure, cholesterol reduction, blood thinning, etc.

During the days in the hospital, I was continually tested by nurses and doctors to see of I had any additional stroke symptoms. I had none whatsoever. With each test, I expected my good showings to result in my being released and my being able to resume a normal sort of life (albeit with a partial vision loss that wasn't going away.) However, every time an additional testing via equipment was run, it always came back with the worst possible result. I was told, "Well, it might be this good thing...", but it never was. Every single test that had to be studied for results came back with bad news. It was all very disheartening.

Ultrasound, x-ray and CT scan testing revealed that I had also suffered a couple of heart attacks in my life and that my heart was working at about 27% capacity. This was not a pleasant surprise, but by the time the final results were in, I wasn't AT ALL surprised as I by then expected the worst. Something I had feared my entire life was broached. I was told I needed a coronary bypass operation, and soon.

I am now scheduled for same on the 25th.

My Dad had that surgery around the time he was 56. He died at age 62. My 62nd birthday is coming on March 2nd. Woo-Hoo.

That's the short story of it. There are more details, of course, but I don't feel like talking about them - the more I do, the more I'm reminded of the upcoming unpleasantness - nor do I want to bore anyone by being one of those people who goes on and on about his/her medical traumas.

I do need to say - want to say - that I am blessed beyond measure to have MY WIFE. She has been absolutely solid throughout. To say that I love her is, of course, an understatement.

I have no desire to bring pain or worries to any of my other relatives and friends. That's pretty much my greatest disappointment in this. My Mom, among others of course, is worried. I hate to be the bringer of that.

Once I'm past the operation I'll be fine mentally, barring the totally expected sort of depression one is supposed to have. Thinking about it now, though, scares the shit out of me. If I had the ability to be totally oblivious from now until then, I'd take it. However, no one is willing to prescribe me enough happy pills for that. This is the one thing that pisses me off more than any other. I don't give a flying fuck about the possibility of addiction. I have a problem NOW that I want to handle; I'll handle that other problem later, thanks. And it wouldn't be a problem, believe me. I've now been off cigarettes for six days and if I can do that, I can do anything.

OK, that's all for now. Just felt I should let the folks who still visit here know the story.

Soon, with more better stuff.

Are You Ready To Boogie?

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Tue, 08 Jan 2019 04:30:00 +0000

Well, get down off your chair. This isn't a rock concert. It's just a post about rock concerts. As a matter of fact, it's mostly an OLD post about rock concerts (but updated since first published in 2011.)

I got to thinking about some of the best concerts I've ever attended. Then I tried compiling a list of ALL the concerts I've attended during my life. This is the result.

[Note: I've seen quite a few more musical congregations than those listed below. However, I'm only counting those seen in a "concert" setting; I'll say at least 300 seats available. Clubs, therefore, would generally not count. For instance, I saw wonderful musicians in New Orleans when I was there. They played in small clubs, though, so not on this list.]

My tastes tend toward heavy metal and hard rock, so those dominate, but you'll notice early on that they aren't all rock concerts. I decided to include everybody I've seen perform, some of whom are the type of acts you might have thought were not my cup of tea. Hey, what can I say? I'm eclectic.

When I was a teen, I - and all of my friends - were voracious concertgoers. This was, in no small part, due to most of us also being voracious drug users. Everybody, whatever other drugs we used, smoked pot regularly. And I can honestly say that my use of pot directly led to a lifelong love of music. That statement is in no way an exaggeration.

Prior to my smoking grass, I was indifferent to music. I liked it but I wasn't a fanatic. I could take it or leave it. My tastes ran to music in comedy more than anything else; Tom Lehrer, for instance, or maybe the Smothers Brothers or Allan Sherman. After getting high, I began to truly FEEL the music. I could immerse myself in it and find textures I had never before noticed. I would liken it to a colorblind person suddenly seeing colors for the first time. It was truly a mind-opening experience for me. I not only became enamored with music performance but I also became a musician who played in five different groups that were paid for performing.

[Yes, that's me with the long orange hair, on stage with a band called Live Wire circa 1981. To put my own "career" in perspective, I played perhaps four or five gigs that could have qualified for this list by the "300 or more seats" rule. The biggest was about 2000, as I recall.]

Anyway, the point of a list like that which follows is to jog your memory and perhaps get you to tell a tale or two of your own, so please do so here or at your own place. I'd love to read your lists/stories.

(The numbers in brackets indicate acts I've seen more than once. The stories following any of the names will indicate, in all likelihood, that I'm a long-winded bastard willing to spout off far too much concerning past drug usage.)

AC/DC [4]

The first time I saw these guys goes down in history as the best audience participation I was ever involved in. My good buddy, Fast Freddy Goodman, had scored us tickets for the second row. In the audience, to our right, were... ah, hell, it's a long story, but a good one. Better if you go read it HERE. You'll be rewarded with cheap thrills concerning sex, if that helps.

The last time I saw these guys was also in the company of Fast Freddy and also resulted in a story to tell (as is often the case with any time spent with Fast Freddy.) Read all about Hell's Parking Lot.

Aerosmith [3]

Alice Cooper

The Allman Brothers Band
Anvil

The Beach Boys

Saw them as the opening act for Chicago, in Foxboro Stadium (the then-home of the New England Patriots.) It marked the first time I ever tried brownies made with pot.

One of the guys I went to the concert with - there were six of us, as I recall - lived in Foxboro, so we went to his place before the show, armed with a righteously-sized bag of dope and a box of Betty Crocker. We mixed the brownie batter and dumped the dope in, stirred well, and baked, both literally and figuratively. I don't believe I have ever been as stoned since and I know for sure that I had never been that stoned before.

The problem, though, was that we hadn't considered the best way to incorporate a bag of dope into some brownies. Sure, we crushed it up somewhat, but what we should have done was grind it fine before adding it to the brownie mix. About an hour after eating the things, and just as we were really peaking, we had some of the worst cramps in history. And, about midway through Chicago's set, my intestines rebelled with passion against the digestion of such stuff as seeds and twigs. Color my world brown, thank you. I was on the can that night until about 25 or 6 to 4.

Tony Bennett

Black Oak Arkansas [2]

Black Sabbath [6]

This count does NOT include separate concerts of Ozzy Osbourne listed later.

The first time I saw Black Sabbath marked the first time I ever took a drug I wasn't intending to take. While grooving to Into The Void, the guy next to me passed me a joint. Or, at least, I thought it was a joint. I thanked him and took a mighty haul on it. I then realized, by the unmistakable taste of plastic in my mouth, that it was Angel Dust. Oh, well. It wasn't as though I had never done the stuff before. I knew what I was in for, so I relaxed and enjoyed it.

[Disclaimer: Angel Dust is the only drug I've ever done that I would never in a million years recommend to anybody, even if I hated them. If I knew then what I know now, about how quickly you could die from that shit, I'd never have touched it the first time. Enough said, I hope.]

Blondie

Blue Oyster Cult [2]

Quite possibly the record for furthest time between seeing an act twice - 1975 and 2009. The first time, they opened for Black Sabbath. The second time, they opened for Deep Purple.

Boston

The Boston Pops [8]

The Boston Symphony Orchestra

Well, I'm from Boston, after all.

David Bowie (Sort of - see Iggy Pop)

Harry Chapin

Lovely man. He gave a free concert at the Hatch Shell on the Charles River, with a hat passed and donations going to some charity or another. This was hardly a one-off deal for him. He was known for his charitable endeavors. Shortly after I saw this concert, he died. Such a shame.

Chicago [2]

Perry Como

Funny story. I had made plans to see Mr. Como with MY WIFE. I had made plans to see Ozzie Osbourne with Fast Freddy. These concerts were supposed to take place during the same week.

When Fred and I went to see Ozzie, we arrived at the venue only to find out that Ozzie was sick and had canceled. A couple of days later, MY WIFE and I saw Mr. Como in concert. He was about 87 at the time, and made his way to the stage with a cane and two assistants. And then he proceeded to perform a marvelous show for about two-and-a-half hours, leaving the stage afterward with the cane and the two assistants.

MY WIFE has never stopped kidding me about how Perry Como was as good as his word, despite his advanced age and infirmities, while Ozzie Osbourne probably canceled because he had a bad cold.

Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

First real rock concert I ever went to, thanks to my Uncle Jim. He scored the tickets for me and my friends. He had some seriously good connections in those days, so he got us into the second row at Boston Garden. Midway through the show, we lit up a pipe full of grass and were passing it back and forth. David Crosby eyed us from the stage and gave us a thumbs up. We lived on that for weeks.

Deep Purple [9]

My favorite band, so you'd think I'd have many stories to tell. The best, I suppose, was the last one wherein Fast Freddy and I (along with Steve Alimo) got to meet the band backstage.

[That's me in the yellow hat, flanked by Purple drummer Ian Paice and Fast Freddy]

Steve Morse, the current guitarist - next to Fast Freddy in the photo - is probably the single musician I've seen more often than any other (eight times with DP, once as a member of Dixie Dregs, once with his own Steve Morse Band.)

Ronnie James Dio

The Dixie Dregs

Duke & The Drivers
Ernie & The Automatics

Maynard Ferguson [2]

The only real concerts I ever attended with My Father, outside of the Boston Pops gigs, were the two times I saw Maynard Ferguson. My Dad was a Ferguson freak. He had some 16 or 17 vinyl long-players of Maynard, so I heard him often and came to enjoy him greatly myself. I still have most of those records as well as some old 78's of him with Stan Kenton's band. The man sure could reach some dog-whistle highs on that horn of his.

Peter Frampton

Just prior to him breaking huge as a solo act, I saw him open for Aerosmith in Providence, Rhode Island. At the time, not too many people knew what in hell a talkbox for a guitar was, so we were totally freaked when he made his guitar "speak".

Gentle Giant

Grand Funk Railroad

The Grass Roots

Golden Earring

We've got a thing that's called Radar Love...

With the possible exception of Highway Star, by Deep Purple, the best driving song ever.

Herman’s Hermits
Huun-Huur Tu & Angelite

The former were a Tuvan throat singing aggregation, the latter a Hungarian female vocal group touring with them. Amazingly good combination. If you've never heard Tuvan throat singing, you should. It may or may not be your favorite experience. Personally, I think it's a wonderfully entertaining freakish way to vocalize.

The J. Geils Band [3]

David Johansen [2]

This man just ate stages whole; swallowed them in big bites. Probably the best showman I've ever seen. If you don't recognize the name, he fronted The New York Dolls prior to his solo career and later adopted the persona of Buster Poindexter for some gigs on Saturday Night Live.

Tom Jones

Saw him in Vegas, baby. And the man has a spectacular set of pipes. If you've only heard his poppish hits, you might not know that he has one of the best blues voices ever. Well, he does. And he uses it tremendously well. Blew me away.

KISS
Korn

The Monkees

Yup. Three-quarters of them, anyway. Michael Nesmith was not part of the aggregation.

The Moody Blues

The Steve Morse Band

Mott

NOT Mott The Hoople. This was the band Overend Watts fronted after Mott The Hoople dissolved. It contained three of the original members, but not Ian Hunter.

Wayne Newton

Saw Mr. Newton in Las Vegas, also. Great showman, to be certain, but his voice is shot to hell.

Ozzie Osbourne [2]

He didn't eat any bats (or puppies, as MY WIFE thinks he does.)

Pantera

Poco [2]

Very odd. Saw them twice, but never expected to. They were the opening act on two different bills, and a pleasant surprise both times.

Iggy Pop

Post-Stooges, with David Bowie playing keyboards (which I'm not sure half the audience even noticed, as he kept very much to the shadows and was never introduced.)

Gary Puckett & The Union Gap

The Ramones [4]

Kenny Rogers

Ended up seeing him for a very odd reason. MY WIFE and I decided we'd broaden our horizons randomly, so we asked My Mom to buy tickets for a show at The South Shore Music Circus on a specified random date. We assiduously avoided looking at the tickets or any advertisements for the place; we only knew when we were supposed to go there. It wasn't until we were there that we knew who we were seeing. It was a fine show, too. If I could remember the name of the female country singer who opened for him, she'd also be on this list. She was good. Wish I could recall her name.

Queen

Joe Satriani

The Scorpions

Sepultura

Slade

Ruby Starr & Grey Ghost

An amazingly underrated and forgotten singer. Strong voice, in-your-face sexuality permeating her stage presence, she should have been huge. She died young and relatively unknown considering the scope of her talents. If you've heard Black Oak Arkansas's version of Jim Dandy, she's the featured female voice.

Traffic

Trans-Siberian Orchestra
Livingston Taylor

Tuff Darts

Andy Williams (again, Las Vegas)
The Who [3]

Could be two times, not three; depends upon how you count. The first time I saw them, Keith Moon collapsed on his drum kit halfway into the second song. The show was canceled. Saw the return engagement, then another after that with Kenny Jones on the skins.

Frank Zappa & The Mothers Of Invention

ZZ Top [2]

And this could be 1 and 1/2, depending upon how you count. The second time I saw them, some douchebag threw a beer bottle at the stage. The band left and didn't return.

********************************************************

And that's it. I'm sure I'll remember three more bands and five more stories as soon as I publish this.

Rock on.

Soon, with more better stuff.

Happy New Year?

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Tue, 01 Jan 2019 03:26:00 +0000

Celebrations change with age. My New Year’s progression has been as follows.

It started as a night when I was allowed to stay up but mostly failed to do so. I would fall asleep on the couch while my parents watched Guy Lombardo. They’d wake me a couple of minutes before the ball dropped in Times Square, to watch it happen on TV, but while they made a big production of the countdown, I was usually back asleep before midnight.

Then I was old enough to stay awake, but not old enough to drink. That was sort of like being given a yummy hot pizza, but being told I couldn’t eat it. So by the time I was legally able to get drunk, I did so with a vengeance — and became a jerk, albeit a legal one.

Sex entered the equation, too, and New Year’s was viewed by me as a holiday when “getting busy” was a prerequisite. That sure didn’t alleviate any tendency toward jerkdom.

In my late twenties, I wasn’t getting enough of a kick from just drinking and having sex. I used drugs, also. I became a wide-awake drunk because my drug of choice was cocaine. I was even more of a jerk than before, and now not even a legal one.

After age 32, I stopped doing cocaine and mostly stopped drinking. I got married, too. In other words, I finally grew up. Now on New Year’s, my wife and I would order Thai food, watch “Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve” (with me complaining about how none of the bands were really rockin’ much) and then we’d have a kiss at midnight and usually a bit more.

Around age 45, it got to be that we’d order Thai food, watch some of Dick Clark (but more of the annual Three Stooges marathon on TV), have a kiss at midnight, then maybe some sex or maybe not. We both knew there were 364 other days in the year.

By 50, we ordered Thai food, ate it, and then my wife would go read or maybe even go to bed while I settled in to watch the Stooges. If she was awake at midnight, I’d switch over to Dick Clark for her (although Dick Clark wasn’t really on his own show much anymore) and we’d have a quick smooch. If she slept through the ball dropping, though, no big deal.

Last year, I ordered the Thai food knowing full well that Curly having a saw raked across his noggin would be the highlight of my evening. That was OK because we BOTH went to bed before midnight and felt no guilt whatsoever.

We didn't even order any Thai food this year. As I write this, MY WIFE is asleep. She had a couple of glasses of wine earlier while I was watching the Celtics lose to San Antonio. She said she'd be up later, so we'll see. If she isn't, I'll watch Moe abuse Curly.

If you’re younger than I am, and still making a big deal out of New Year’s Eve, don’t make fun of me. You’ll do something similar, eventually, but only if you’re blessed with a partner with whom you’re extremely comfortable and still in love.

What you’ll discover, with maturity, is that trying to squeeze as much debauchery as possible into one evening isn’t the best way to start a new year. Also, you’ll find that no matter how crummy the previous year has been — and this was a pretty crummy one — you won’t be in as big a rush to have had yet another come and go so damn quickly.

I wish you happiness, whether it's the beginning of a new year or just some random date in the middle of April or October. If turning the page on a calendar gets your rocks off, more power to you. As for me, meh.

Soon, with more better stuff.

The Gift

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Fri, 21 Dec 2018 02:45:00 +0000

[Christmas, 1965 or thereabout]

He had ten cents left over from his original dollar, which will give you an idea of the value of the cigars and perfume. In any case, he now wanted to buy a present for his aunt.

He felt great. He was in love with the world.

He brought the gift up to the checkout and paid for it. Now there was nothing to jingle in his pockets, but that was OK. His Christmas shopping was done.

He made his way back home, enjoying the big colored lights that were on just about every house in the neighborhood, again catching (or trying to catch) snowflakes in his mouth.

*********************************************

When he got home, he took off his boots (which was always troublesome – he always seemed to leave one sock inside of a boot) and then ran upstairs to his room, to wrap this newest gift.

*******************************************

********************************************

(He went to the bathroom to do so.)

He probably would have stared at it a bit longer, but his cat came along and started playing with one of the low-hanging ornaments and that broke him out of his reverie.

******************************************

Now it was time for mass, after which the family would head over to the aunt’s to exchange gifts, before heading off to the house of the boy's grandparents.

She said, “Oh, Jimmy, they’re just what I needed! Thank you, darling!”

She reached over and kissed him. He blushed and said, “You’re welcome.”

Never before had a package of red and green kitchen sponges brought such joy to two people.

*******************************************

True story.

My Auntie Ba is gone now, and I miss her, but her spirit lives on with me every Christmas because of the gift she gave me.

Merry Christmas!

A Christmas Confession

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Wed, 19 Dec 2018 03:00:00 +0000

[Originally published in the Boston Herald, 2013, but it's still 100% true.]

I am about to make an extremely shocking confession. You should probably be sitting down. It might even be advisable to take a drink of some sort; otherwise, the enormity of the truth I'm about to divulge may send you into immediate cardiac arrest.

Are you ready?

I love fruitcake.

[photo of a Colin Street, Texas, fruitcake - one of the best]

There, I’ve said it. It's not something a lot of people would admit to, but now that it’s out in the open I feel better. I am a man with no secrets. I may have marked myself out for scorn and derision, maybe made myself a pariah, what with the fruitcake bashing that goes on every Christmas season, but I’m willing to take some lumps for my beloved.

I am Humbert Humbert and fruitcake is my Lolita.

Some folks have no use for fruitcakes. They launch them with catapults, use them as doorstops, or perhaps pass one around as a joke gift at the office Christmas party. I, on the other hand, love little pieces of unidentified fluorescent green fruit embedded in cake with an approximate weight equal to lead. Bring it on! Cherries of a red hue unfound in any part or portion of nature? I can’t get enough. Feed me fruitcake from now until Epiphany and I’ll still not be satisfied.

Say what you will about my taste (or lack thereof) but it pains me every time someone makes the blanket assertion that nobody likes receiving fruitcake as a present. My eyes tear up at the very thought of such a kindness being done for me. Saying that no one eats them makes it harder for me to get one and I don’t appreciate that. Many are unwilling to risk embarrassment at the hands of the snarky jokesters who have made "fruitcake" some sort of holiday swear word. Every year, more and more fruitcakes sit forlorn on the shelves of stores, awaiting a nice home for the holidays, while receiving only insults from ignorant and unfeeling passersby. With all due respect, to hell with those jerks. I want my fruitcake!

Due to this rampant fruitcake bigotry, I find myself more and more fruitcake-deprived. I’ve received a few as presents, from brave relatives and friends willing to incur the wrath of hipper-than-thou 20-something clerks at the checkout counter, but these gifts have become fewer and farther between than my insatiable desires demand. I haven’t had to break down and actually buy one myself, but the prospect looms large and I don’t like it.

Are you a fruitcake hater? Take pity! If you have a fruitcake you wish to be rid of, please don't hurl it into space or relegate it to anonymous doorstop duty. Send it to ME. I'd love to give it a nice home (in my belly) and I promise I will not besmirch your reputation by telling anyone you actually once had one in your possession. Here's an address:

Sully’s Home for Wayward Fruitcakes

93 Winsor Avenue

Watertown, MA 02472

No joke – send it! I’ll gladly sacrifice my own health and well-being in order to keep the rest of America fit and trim.

Addendum: MY WIFE raises the possibility that eating fruitcakes received in the mail from strangers may result in my eating a poisoned fruitcake. I contend that the poison has yet to be invented that can take a fruitcake in a fair fight. Nevertheless, to ease her mind, I have promised to only eat those fruitcakes that arrive securely wrapped in their original packaging. The rest I will forward to other deserving parties; perhaps the state legislature. Thank you.

Soon, with more better stuff.

Pointy The Poinsettia

noreply@blogger.com (Suldog) — Thu, 13 Dec 2018 13:25:00 +0000

Once upon a time, there was a poinsettia named Pointy.

(His given name was Poindexter Poinsettia, but everybody called him Pointy for short.)

Pointy lived in a large greenhouse with his poinsettia family and other plant friends. He liked it very much.

The world was a wonderful place full of bright sunshine, all the water he wanted to drink, and dark rich soil for his roots. He thought that he couldn’t possibly be happier.

Then, one day in November, some of Pointy’s friends weren’t around anymore. Pointy wondered where they had gone. He also wondered how they got wherever they went. They were plants, after all, and thus only able to walk extremely short distances.

Pointy asked his uncle, Pedro Poinsettia, where his friends had gone.

"Oh, it’s a joyous time of year, Pointy!" said Uncle Pedro.

"What do you mean?" asked Pointy.

Uncle Pedro leaned close to Pointy and whispered in his ear (or, at least, what passed for an ear on Pointy) and said:

"In November, all the poinsettias who have grown big red leaves are taken from the greenhouse and sent all over the world to give joy to the people who celebrate Christmas. The people are very happy to have a poinsettia in their home or school or office. They smile and say things like, ‘What a beautiful poinsettia! How pretty it is, with its big red and green leaves! Merry Christmas!’"

Pointy was very excited. He had never considered the possibility of travel, but now he hoped that he might be able to go far away and see many interesting people and things. He enjoyed the thought of bringing great joy to people celebrating Christmas. He packed his bags and waited to be shipped.

(Well, OK, he didn’t actually have any bags. As a matter of fact, even if he did have bags, he wouldn’t have known what to pack in them. I'm sure you get the idea, though. He was excited and ready to go.)

Finally, the day came when Pointy was planted into a big pot, all trimmed with pretty gold foil.

He felt extra-special now! He was then loaded into a truck, along with about thirty other plants. As the truck was driving away, he waved good-bye to his Uncle Pedro.

(No, he didn’t, really. No hands, you know? He did what he could, though. Uncle Pedro understood.)

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"You're really pretty, Rose."

"Thank you. You have nice big red leaves."

Pointy blushed.

(To be truthful, he didn’t actually blush; his leaves were already red. But he WAS a bit embarrassed. Rose really was pretty, and it was nice to get a compliment from her.)

Pointy asked, "Do you know where we’re going, Rose?"

"Yes, I think so, Pointy. My Aunt Petunia said we’re all going to office buildings in Newton."

"Newton? Where’s that?"

"I’m not entirely sure, but I believe it’s east of Worcester."

"Oh! Is that a good thing?"

"It’s better than being in Worcester," said Rose.

Pointy looked out the window of the truck. Having never been out of the greenhouse before, he was amazed at how many plants there were everywhere. He saw great huge trees, and big green hedges, and large bunches of scary weeds, and gigantic expanses of grass, and even a few pretty flowers, like his new friend, Rose. However, he didn’t see a single poinsettia anywhere. This worried him a bit.

He asked Rose, "Am I going to be the only poinsettia in Newton?"

Rose shrugged her shoulders.

(Nah, not really. She didn’t have shoulders. She did indicate she didn’t know the answer to Pointy’s question, but shoulders never entered into it.)

The truck turned off of the road and into a parking lot. After it stopped, the back door of the truck opened and a man reached in and grabbed Rose.

Pointy said, "Good luck, Rose! I hope you bring much joy to the people in this building!"

Rose blew a kiss to Pointy, and then she was gone. The man carried her inside of the building where they had stopped.

The man had left the door of the truck open, so Pointy was able to see Rose being carried by the man. The man stopped and handed Rose to a woman sitting behind a desk. The woman immediately became very happy, a big smile appearing on her face.

As the man who delivered Rose was walking back to the truck, Pointy saw the happy woman carrying Rose all around her office, showing Rose to all her friends. Everybody smiled as soon as they saw Rose, and Rose was very happy in her new home. Pointy was also very happy, for now he was extra excited about how happy he was going to make the people where he was going.

The man closed the door to the truck. Soon, the truck was moving again. Pointy imagined being carried into an office where all the people would smile and say, "What a beautiful poinsettia! How pretty it is, with its big red and green leaves! Merry Christmas!"

While Pointy was imagining this, the truck stopped in front of another building. The back door to the truck opened and suddenly Pointy was in the man’s hands, being carried outside.

"This is it!" thought Pointy, "I’m about to make many people happy! I can’t wait to see their smiles, and hear them say ‘Merry Christmas!’"

The man brought Pointy up some stairs and then through a glass door. There was a woman at a desk just inside the door. Pointy tried to make his big, red leaves stand up as straight and proud as possible. As he did so, he heard the woman say:

"What the hell is that?"

The man said, "Gift from your landlord. It’s a poinsettia."

"Duh! I can see it’s a poinsettia. What are we supposed to do with it?"

"I don’t know, lady. I just deliver ‘em. Merry Christmas."

Pointy didn’t understand. The woman didn’t seem happy at all. Had he done something wrong?

The woman yelled to someone, "Hey, come see what we got."

A man came out of an office, saw Pointy, and rolled his eyes. He said, "Ugh! Another poinsettia? Every year, we get a friggin' poinsettia and every year we have no place to put it. What in hell are we going to do with it?"

"Don’t look at me," said the woman at the desk, "I don’t have any room for it here."

Other people came out of their offices to see what the noise was about. As each one saw Pointy, they laughed and made faces and said mean things.

Pointy wanted very much to be back in his friendly greenhouse. This wasn’t at all as he had imagined it, or as Uncle Pedro had told him it would be. He wanted to just shrivel up and make himself as small as possible.

Finally, the woman at the desk took him and placed him on a wobbly table, near some stacks of old yellowed paper and bent paperclips and dried up pens that nobody ever used. Every so often, someone who hadn’t seen Pointy would walk by. At first, Pointy tried standing up proud and showing off his pretty red leaves. However, it was always the same story. Either the person just walked by without noticing him, or laughed and said something mean about him.

After a while, Pointy just gave up. He stopped caring what the people said. He started losing his big red leaves that he had been so proud of. As he did so, the people in the office started saying even worse things about him. They kicked at his fallen leaves and, when they picked them up, they threw them in the garbage, cursing. He could feel his roots drying out. Nobody gave him any water. Nobody cared about him. There was no sun; just a cold bit of light from some fluorescent tubes. As much as a poinsettia had a heart, Pointy’s was broken.

Pointy lost many more of his leaves. He was dying. He wanted to die. Life was a miserable thing. Christmas? It was just a cruel joke. He had imagined much love, and had received none.

**********************************************

************************************************

Every day, Pointy waited for Jim to arrive. Every day, Jim did something nice for Pointy. He gave Pointy a drink of water, or put him where he could get a bit of sunshine. When one of Pointy’s leaves was withered and painful, Jim gently removed it, giving Pointy space to grow a new, stronger leaf.

Finally, it came to the day before Christmas. For all of the love Pointy was receiving from Jim, there was still the pain of knowing that what he had heard about Christmas was untrue. Nobody had seen him and said, ‘What a beautiful poinsettia! How pretty it is, with its big red and green leaves! Merry Christmas!’

Pointy had grown back some big, green leaves. The few red ones he had left were strong and bright now. He wished that someone would get to see them for Christmas. He wished that he could bring someone some joy. Of course, Jim liked him, but he still wanted to believe in what his Uncle Pedro had told him during that time which seemed so long ago now. He wanted to be a plant that made people smile at Christmas.

It was December 24th. There had been a party in the office and now Pointy saw lights being turned off and he heard people saying cheery good-byes, wishing each other happy holidays. Well, he had been lucky to find one new friend, he supposed. Maybe that would get him through the holiday. Jim would be back in a couple of days, and that wouldn’t be so bad. At least he made Jim happy.

He heard the door lock. It was dark and cold now. His leaves drooped a bit. Even though he expected to spend Christmas alone in the office, he had still hoped...

(*CLICK*)

Pointy heard the door to the office open and he noticed one light come on.

"Probably the cleaning people", thought Pointy.

But then, there was Jim! Jim bent down and picked up Pointy, carried him out of the office, down the stairs, and out into the... SNOW! Jim put Pointy down into the cold white stuff!

Oh, no! Was Jim tired of him, too? Was he leaving him to die in the snow? What a cruel world!

Pointy only had a few seconds to entertain such morbid thoughts. Jim picked him up again, put him into the front seat of his car, put a seat belt around Pointy's container, and turned on the heat. Then Jim started driving. Jim was taking Pointy home! For Christmas!

And so Jim DID bring Pointy home for Christmas, and Pointy saw Christmas lights and Christmas trees, and he had sunshine and warmth and as much water as he wanted to drink. He had a seat of honor by the fireplace, where the stockings hung, and he was given some lovely ribbons to wear. And love. Pointy was given love. And on Christmas morning, Jim (and JIM'S WIFE) said to Pointy...

"What a beautiful poinsettia! How pretty you are, with your big red and green leaves! Merry Christmas!"

Pointy was the happiest poinsettia in the whole entire world!

THE END

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