Tuesday, January 22, 2013

A (not so) Brief List of Netflix Recommendations

I am a child of the 1980s.

Fortunately, I  was alive to witness the dawn of the v/h/s player, the rise of video stores, and -even though there were some casualties- I fondly remember the betamax war.

My dad bought us our first VCR for Christmas in 1984. Shortly after the Holidays my Grandmother was asked to watch us for an evening. Our parents left us with a stack of fresh video tapes and our very first box of microwave popcorn. We tossed in a bag of corn and Nana forced us to watch it pop from across the room. The technology was new and utterly mind blowing.

I felt so lucky. Living in an era where a person could walk only a short distance to discover a world of cinema and I ended up doing just that every day after school.

What follows is an approximation of the 7 Films possibly rented with the "Open a Membership Get 7 Movies Free" at Cagney's (R.I.P.) Membership Deal.

1. Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome
2. Back to The Future
3. The Last Dragon
4. Police Academy
5. The Karate Kid
6. The Goonies
7. Ghostbusters

It wasn't long before I was pictured on the front cover of "Cagney's" weekly circular. Holding aloft the cover of my favorite film of the moment, "Tough Guys," (Action, USA 1986, 104 mins.) starring Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas. 


Time came and went. "Marched," as the newsreels of yesteryear so keenly point out. A mega video store opened only a block away from "Cagney's." With incredible deals impossible to pass up, "Major Video" offered 3 movies for 3 dollars for 3 days. Unheard of. My ferocious appetite for film wouldn't allow me to let it go. I begged my dad to get a membership. I still feel guilty for making that mistake. Assisting in the demise of the little enterprise that helped create my addiction.

My hunger for movies, "Pitchahs" as my Dad calls them, had grown insatiable. I'd watch anything and always will. Developing an appreciation for the good as well as (most of) the bad. And "Major Video" -which eventually morphed into "Blockbuster"- was lousy with bad films. The old cliche "Don't Judge a Book By it's Cover" is often true for Books but what a terrific way to find a good film.

For instance, the movie "Bad Taste" (Science Fiction/Cult/Just Plain Weird, New Zealand, 1987, 91 mins.)


Can you think of a more compelling movie cover, to a ten year old, than a weird fat alien holding an A.K. 47 and giving him the finger? Because I can't.

Peter Jackson (Lord of the Rings Trilogy, King Kong, The Frighteners) may well have just planted a homing beacon in the box and sent me a tracking device. I rented it in record time.

It was terrible. And fucking awesome. At one point the director and lead character, Peter Jackson, does a swan-dive off of a balcony holding a chainsaw, using it to carve through that weird fat alien thing, and winds up wearing the alien's body as a skin suit. I don't recommend "Bad Taste" to many people.

But when I was ten...


It's hard to describe how elated I feel whenever I make a discovery of this magnitude. Only the great explorers would understand. DJs call it "Digging Through The Crates." By the time"Blockbuster" closed down I had seen just about everything on their shelves. Much to the chagrin of anyone that accompanied me to rent a movie.

Eventually, I grew to disdain "Blockbuster." 80 copies of the same title, virtually no independent films, ridiculous rental prices. Also, I'm pretty sure, they co-produced "dummy titled" movies in an effort to trick people -who didn't know any better- into renting what they thought was an original. (People refer to them as "Mockbusters" such as "The Titanic." They got my Dad repeatedly with this trick. He never understood that when a movie was out at the theater chances are you'd have to wait for it to appear at the local video store.)

The days of the Video Store seem to be going the way of the betamax tape and a year or two ago I joined netflix. Every once in a while there are some rumblings. People have a hard time with the quality of film or feel it's overpriced. It tends to be a punchline for most but I gotta say, I really dig it.

Then again, I've always loved "digging through the crates." Sometimes it's a pain but mostly I've ended up watching things I might not have found otherwise. It's enjoyable because if something is truly bad in a not so entertaining way I can always move along and find something that is. Or something that's pretty G-D Amazing.

Which brings us to, without further adieu, a selection of some of the movies I've discovered digging through the Netflix crates.


Bones Brigaid: An Autobiography (documentary, USA 2012, 111 mins.)
 I can't tell you how crazy I was about these guys in the 80s. My Dad still refers to "that silly Animal Chin Pitchah you made me watch!" (The skating in Animal Chin is undeniable.) This documentary is immense. I particularly enjoy Rodney Mullins' contribution. What a fantastic document about a group of people who not only put skating on the map but defined it forever. And unlike some other powerful documentary detailing the "Collapse" of our society or how Bankers are stealing your lively-hood this movie doesn't leave you feeling angry. It's Inspiring. I highly recommend this one.


Fishing With John (T.V. Show/ Documentary/ Weirdness, USA 1991, 6 episodes)
In case you missed it, in the early 90s, there was an incredible tv show -which preempted many of the reality shows today- entitled "Fishing With John." The "John" in the title refers to show creator and star John Lurie. More commonly known as one of the founding members of "The Lounge Lizards" or as a character on "OZ," Lurie drags his friends to remote locations simply to fish. The second episode with Tom Waits is a must-see. (Credit goes to my brother David for recommending this one.)


The Pact (Horror, USA 2012, 89 mins)
YES! This is a small but scary Horror movie that has a good deal of surprises and has a lot going for it. I enjoy watching horror movies more than most and this one had some nice twists. Think along the lines of a lower key "Frailty." It's a mystery as well and the filmmakers did a good job making things creepy. A bit of a tingler.


KLOWN (Comedy, Denmark 2010, 89 mins.)
"Wildly Inapropriate" is probably the best description of this film. Put your mind in the framework of an even more overboard "Curb Your Enthusiasm" episode. One of the funniest movies I've seen in a while. Word has it that they're remaking this with the fat guy from "East Bound and Down" I'm sure it'll be ok but this movie is where it's at. Enjoy.


Trollhunter (Found footage/ Mockumentary, Norway 2010, 90 mins.)
Where to begin? This movie is ridiculous. Fantastic and an utterly stunning portrayal of the Troll problem in Norway. It conceives a terrificly stupid premise which follows through to a delightful conclusion. Worth watching for the lead character, Hans, (Norwegian comedian Otto Jesperson) alone. His deadpan delivery is stellar. The only down side? It's definitely designed to be watched on a large movie screen and, I'm assuming -like me- you'll be watching it on a 15 inch macbook.


Punching The Clown (Comedy, USA 2009, 90 mins.)
Proof that huge budgets aren't necessary for funny movies. This is a fantastic movie with just the right touch of silliness. It's about a singer/songwriter who attempts to start a career in Hollywood only to dive neck deep into the bullshit that is the Hollywood machine. Word on the street is that Showtime is currently working on a T.V. series. Let's hope it doesn't get tied up in the same ridiculousness that the movie portrays. (Classify as: "In Development.")


13 Assassins (Action/Revenge/Violent, Japan 2011, 141 mins.)
Incredible. Gritty. One of the very best films I saw in 2011. If you're not into gore skip this one but if you don't mind a little blood then, by all means, watch this movie as soon as possible. The first half of this film builds a case against the bad guy (An awful Tyrant who is about to succeed the Shogun). The second half involves one of the best battle sequences ever filmed. Watch this one with your swords.

That's it for my selections. I don't have any time to get to the trillions of fantastic T.V. Series that now find their home on the site. It's Amazing. We don't even have to walk to a place to rent videos any more. We can watch a decent selection of whatever we want from the privacy of our own hovel.

Perhaps you'll check out one or two of the movies I've selected. I'd appreciate it and would love to hear about it. Also, feel free to tell me about some of the gems you may've found through your own digging.

Thanks for reading,
Chris

p.s. I still watch the popcorn pop from across the room.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Git-R-Done Country

The website for the Florida State Fair provides a decent feel for what the fair itself has to offer. Event dates, agricultural information, hours of operation for "Cracker Country"... you get the idea. However, upon visiting the actual fair, you'll see that the most prominent feature of the fair is nowhere to be found on their website. Food.


To be more specific, terrible food. Some of the worst food I've ever had the good grace to avoid. Hundreds of food vendors, all peddling the same garbage, flank the 355 acres of midway. I've been to my share of fairs, carnivals, and "old's home's day's." I consider myself a frequenter of amusement parks, circuses, and when everyone else claims zoos "are cruel" I'll be the first guy there. Hotdog in one hand, cotton candy in the other, chocolate dipped ice cream cone balanced on one sneaker, turkey leg balanced on the other. I consider junk food to be an important staple of any entertainment outing.

A friend once told me, "I hope you never change." At the time, I was busy stuffing my pockets full of napkins at a snack bar with a fresh straw clenched between my teeth. I then collected a large popcorn, large drink, pretzel bites, and goobers and made way for the movie theater. All of the junk food was for me.

I haven't changed one bit. At least, I don't think I have.

Florida, on it's own, is a no man's land. A vast wasteland where anything goes and everyone has seen better days. I don't know what it is, can't quite put my finger on it, but Florida -if it were a person- would be a thin, almost sickly, wiry white guy with no jaw. Sporting a rattail, a baseball cap, and a shiny red face. Even though the guy would appear to be in shape, he'd be riding a mobility scooter firing guns off as he slowly rode past. Florida is wild and unwieldy. It's the closest state we have to Mad Max's birthplace. Florida IS Mad Max. And it's home to 1.5 million alligators.

Enter the Florida State Fair. A sweeping collection of exhibits, vendors, amusements, animals, helicopter rides, alligator shows, game booths, and other delivery vehicles for Hepatitis C. The first thing that becomes apparent about the fair, and quickly turns staggering, is the volume of food vendors. There must be hundreds. Lined bumper to bumper, measured end to end it's got to be about two miles of food trucks easy. Every one painted in neon colors and covered in pictures of edible waste. Wall to wall cartoon letters spell out the gastrointestinal dangers that await your consumption. A total assault on the senses.

What is there to eat? Fried everything: oreos, candy bars, twinkies, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches -between french toast- also fried... "Chocolate Dipt Bacon," cheeseburgers w/ ice cream on them, cheeseburgers on krispy kreme donuts, something called a "garbage burger," the list goes on and on.

A couple of these items I've had before. Usually, it's just a bite. One bite is enough to make me feel -physically- worse than I've ever felt in my life and say, "that's what that tastes like. Never again."


The problem is when you tell folks about all of this "unbelievable" junk food people tend to have the same reaction.

"You didn't eat any of it?"

"No."

"Nothing?"

"I had a 2 dollar hotdog."

"Was it dipped in anything?"

"..."


Which brings me to my point. It used to be you'd go to a fair and the rides were the main deal. Ride a spinny thing till you puke or ride the pirate ship that goes upside down... till you puke. Hop on the "sky coaster" or the "slingshot," launch yourself into the stratosphere, and leave your stomach on the ground for the duration but now everything is ass backwards. The extreme rides are not the only thing designed to put your insides in a garbage can. The dare no longer extends itself to the "extreme" amusement park ride. If you attend any state fair you're somehow forced to play "man versus stomach" the home game. And from the looks of the Florida State Fairgoers many of them have played and lost. Miserably.

Most likely, their defeats haven't kept them from losing over and over again.

If you were to judge the Florida State Fair based on the health of the people in attendance the overall score would be fat. It's never a good sign when your motorized scooter needs more torque. And based on a cursory glance some of them aren't long for this world. I just hope they fit through death's door. All of it seems due to diet. Which reminds me, I don't remember seeing one healthy option. Not that it's expected at the fair but I still looked. Determinedly. There was nothing to be found. Not even a deep fried salad.


One thing I did find, however, was the world's smallest woman. She looked a little overweight for her size. I'm surprised nobody's tried to roll her up in fried dough and eat her.

-Chris

Monday, November 1, 2010

Halloween

My Mother says I have the memory of an Elephant. So, let's start this story in my youth. (Familiar territory.)

The evening of my seventh Halloween still sits fresh in my thirty three year old skull. That was the year my Mom dressed me up as Count Dracula and whisked me out into the night. My parents differed greatly in their Halloween tactics. Mom would simply take me wherever she smelled Candy but my Dad always tried to get a little fancy.

One year he wanted to "go where all the rich people lived... up by the Monniemint." Referring to "The Bunker Hill Monument." An obelisk in the middle of town commemorating, a battle lost, in The Revolutionary War. A spot where most of Charlestown's elite reside. He would take me up there to see if we couldn't scare us up some elite booty. I have no idea what was expected. Godiva chocolate? Tobelrone perhaps... The major thing we achieved was ringing the snooty doorbells of a couple of real live deadbeats.

The first couple refused to believe it was Halloween, laughed like they'd forgotten how, and then tried to shovel Beluga caviar into my plastic pumpkin. I'd like to think that was the first time I ever swore at an adult,

"Get that shit outta my face lady!"

Probably promptly followed by the stern pulling down of a plastic Luke Skywalker mask. The second couple gave me a ten spot. Which I tried to share with my Dad. For as long as I've known the guy, he's always been right.

Now my Mom, she's a different story altogether. We had some lucrative Hallows Eves storming C-Town, She and I, but none I remember more clearly than that Seventh. The fateful 1984 evening when everything changed.

Right about the time most other kids were recently shuffled home or beginning the ritual of snuggling safely into bed my Mom and I were, on the opposite side of Charlestown, visiting Jean Puliafico. As luck would have it Jean had two teenage kids.

We arrived. Mother presented me. And then there were the requisite:

"he's so adorables"

and

"oh how cutes!"

followed by me sidling around hissing at people, arms folded across my chest like a dead guy, and threatening

"I Vanttt to Suck Your BLUUUUD!"

Ya know, Same way I greet people as a grownup.

Then. Even Later. After my mom had used something called "cold cream" to get all of the white face paint off. (Applying a little too much, if you ask me. Failing to recognize her son has the complexion of the undead.)

I was then asked one of my favorite questions ever.

"Hey Chris, You wanna watch a scary movie?"

Not my first Rodeo, by a stretch. That distinction goes (and a whopper of a mistake it was) to my Pops. When he took us kids to see "Creepshow" at the tender ages of 5, 8, and 11.

Halloween Night Seven, however, was just the right time. A perfect elixer of candy, festivity, popcorn, courage, and film choice.

I may tell myself, "I'm not THAT old" but certainly I'm old enough to remember when MTV was cool. The peak of that cool may very well have been Halloween Night 1984 when some clever bastard in programming chose to run "Night of The Living Dead." And it Rocked. My. World.

"Night of The Living Dead" is not only the King of all Zombie movies, it's also one of the best Horror movies ever made and, simply, a dynamite Classic film. But because it was in black & white, old looking, and not quite so terrifying I was able to hang in with the older kids and root for the good guys. (Although, that scene with the little girl going at her mom, in the cellar, with a gardening tool is haunting.)

We spent the night digging through my candy reserves, crunching popcorn, and yelling at the people in that little white farmhouse not to be so stupid. (If you fire a gun at a gas pump you probably deserve to die.) I don't think they heard us.

"Hey, Chris, want to stick around and watch 'Halloween?'"

I bet you can answer that question for yourself. Those're some cojones on that seven year old.

-Chris

p.s. see if you can guess what I did, for Halloween, last night. Let me save you the trouble. There's a new Zombie T.V. show on AMC that may as well have "Chris Walsh" in the title. Check it out, if you're not too frightened. Perhaps it'll appeal to your inner Count Dracula.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

The Return

It's been so long.
The Earth has spun.
And so much and so little has transpired.
What to tell?
What. To. Tell?
...
Got a job.
Laid low.
Got caught by the Law a few times.
Broke out.
Lost Love and got my face broken.
Once, twice, or three times.

Figured it all out.
Yet chose to forget.
The Naked Yeti hasn't made an appearance in a while.

Started eating yogurt.
It's making me smelly.
Going to the gym.
It's making me smelly.
And I think I'm finally getting over this cold.

I can't seem to stop drinking energy beverages.
They make me hyper so they remind me of when I was 5.
I loved being 5.

Went to Confession for the first time in 10 years or more.
The Priest was some type of Jimmy Buffet.
He didn't even make me say one prayer.
Basically, told me to "stay cool."
Which is all I ask of my religions.

I learn more and more about light bulbs every day.
Ask me and you'll know too.

The hinges on my notebook are rusty.
But my pen works fine.
I use it to write on cut slips.
For wire and SKU numbers.

Money woes are nothing.
As long as I'm being creative.

Oh... and I finally unsheathed my sword.
It's Ready to draw blood.
Again.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

September

There is a stranger conspiring against me. He waits until nightfall to enact his various plots, schemes, and dastardly deeds. He hides like a ghoul -eagerly awaiting my descent into the land of nod. He is a fiend, he is my enemy, and he is faceless.

I live in the midst of two large schools of learning. A middle school and a high one. During daylight hours there's lots of commotion and activity but as the sun sets the neighborhood grows stark, silent.

The middle school ball field and the high school's soccer turf mirror one another across my street. The middle school field is unkempt and mostly dirt with a patch here or there of dead grass. By contrast the high school land is eternally green. Made of synthetic fibers. A lie. There are shadows of shadows that threaten the street whenever the sun sets. The sodium-vapor street lights that line N. Van Ness are of little help.

So far, he has thwarted me time and again. I am left unawares as to how he knows my rhythms.

And when I catch him, he will pay.

Labels:

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Mateys


"Hey, my brother's gonna see if his skiff will float, today, and he's going to fail miserably. You want to go watch?" Marc said the word skiff without pretense, as if it were lingo he used every day. That's because it was.

****

Listening to him talk, you'd never guess he was a D student. C minus at best. He'd rattle off words like "Bilge," "Transom," and "Lanyard" unselfconsciously when we were still more excited about going to the Country Store at "Bearskin Neck" than checking out girls.

My young life can easily be split into several categories: the dull moments, the entertaining, and those spent causing trouble. The latter two were, quite often, one and the same and Marc was involved in every one of 'em. His parents owned a nifty little summer house in Rockport, Massachusetts. Home of my first broken heart. Wasn't a girl that did the deed, unless you consider the township of Rockport a lady. I surely do. I loved visiting with the Sawyers, whenever I got the opportunity, at their seasonal home. Some of my fondest memories involve that little city by the sea. Especially during the summer.

My mother had been friends with Marc's mom, Eleanor, long before I was born and Marc and I became best friends in the bargain. Neither one of us aware of when or how it happened. We were born a week apart and of the same temperament; both of us spaceshots. We knew it because there was no end to the teasing we'd endure. He got it a lot worse than I because he didn't have two cool, athletic older brothers. Marc had one, uncool, anti-athletic older brother who was less popular than Marc. At least Marc had brains and was exceptionally funny in spite of the derision and shit people threw at him.

The nickname "Looney" Sawyer slammed into Marc like the Engine of a locomotive in August of 1986, coinciding with the release of "Stand By Me." The parallels between Marc Sawyer and Teddy Duchamp, Corey Feldman's character, were too close for him to sidestep. He carried that shitty nickname around as if it was embroidered on every tee he owned. People can be pretty cruel everywhere, but in Charlestown -a place where people take pride in being called "Townies"- some kids seemed to be blessed with the gift of viciousness.

****

"Bah-ul-ship!" I heard him saying as I approached.

"Say it again! Battle Ship!" demanded a kid who was six years older than Marc.

"No!"

"Come-on just say it, Looney, Say it! And I'll leave you alone."

"Bah-ul-ship!"

"Haha, you're a fucking spaceshot! OH, look, it's spaceshot number two!"

To which Marc replied, "Go Fuck yourself!"

Marc shot the older kid two bobbing, trailer-park, birds - his middle fingers at full mast while the rest bent at the middle knuckle, pumping his arms up and down as the asshole in question strolled away, in a fit of laughter.

The Double trailer-trash finger was Marc's greatest weapon; His heavy guns against the cruelty. Pick a fight with him, call him "adopted" (which he was) or "Looney", talk shit about his old man's Funeral Parlor and he'd give you the double guns and throw you a "Go Fuck Yourself!" He was my hero in that way. Whatever problems people confronted him with, he always stood up for himself. I wish I stuck up for him more.

His older brother Chris used to get it so much worse than Marc ever did. Maybe because he was a much bigger kid and about five times more vocal, effectively courting disrespect. Chris was a year older and a grade above us.

I can remember one time while we were playing red rover in the schoolyard, Chris's name was called.

"Red Rover, Red Rover, calling Chris Sawyer right over."

He ran full steam, actually chugging, as he barreled across the schoolyard. I guess he didn't see the two kids he was aiming for "double-clutch" (one putting their arm under the other's armpit) on him. When he reached the other line and collided with their arms he smashed to the ground and, somehow, slammed into the wrought iron fence behind the kids. He let loose an ungodly bellow that I can still hear tonight. It was as close to an unintentional "AWOOGA!" that I've ever heard. Once he started, he couldn't stop.

"AWOOO! AWOOOO! AWOOOO! AaaaWOOOOooo!"

Chris, sounding the alarm of a broken arm. It was the only one I can remember, as a kid, happening in the winter months*. Marc and Chris got along well enough but every once in a while they'd get into a public fight that embarrassed the hell out of me, (yet was pretty hilarious to witness). They swore vigorously in public and were unafraid of authority figures: teachers, priests, the bus driver. They even once got me barred from the town barbershop, telling one of the most popular adults in town to Go Fuck Himself. (Which was a sentiment I didn't share.)

For two weeks out of the summer I got to hang out with these two maniacs while they were on vacation. Marc and I would ride bikes to the beach, hunt for crabs, buy penny candy, and get ourselves into all kinds of mischief. I remember one time a little Circus pulled into town with a big top and everything. Spending time in Rockport was like living, for a moment, in a Norman Rockwell Painting. It was Amazing.

One day, Marc informed me that his brother had bought an ancient Boston Whaler; a rusty old flat-bottomed boat, purchased with his savings. Marc and Chris were the only kids I knew of that got an allowance. Neither of them had ever helped their parents out with much. I think the allowance came from staying out of their parent's hair and not acting up during wakes. (Dust-ups during wake hours were far more common than you'd think.)

****

"It's got an outboard engine on it but it's still just a piece of shit. He paid Two Hundred Dollars for it. I told him it was a bad purchase... The thing is a Garbage Scow! He's been trying to make it sea-worthy for the past three weeks. She'll never make it out of the Harbor." said Marc.

Marc's diction got better -the pronunciation of his R's more articulate- when he moved to Rockport for the summer. I was smiling, always a fan of Marc's eloquence.

"So, you want to go down to the Yacht club and watch him try to put the piece-a-shit in the water?"

Some phrases, no matter how careful your diction, always come out Boston.

"Let's go," I said, already walking towards my GT Performer.

"Fuck yeah!"

The Yacht Club, which hunkered on one side of the wharf, had a bunch of boats up on racks and still more floating around the harbor. We could see Chris's "piece of shit" hanging above the pier on a crane as we approached. A small crowd had already gathered full of yacht club folks that were there to help. Standing close by were Chris's friends, general on-lookers, and various other yachtsmen. We were still walking towards the crane when Marc started yelling.

"THERE'S NO WAY THAT THING'LL FLOAT."

All hands turned.

"SHUT THA FUCK UP MARC!" Chris looked sideways over his shoulder.

A high-pitched cackle came from Marc as I tried to inchworm some distance between the two of us. Everyone returned their gaze to the boat as the gang swung the crane's arm over the side of the pier. Marc started a countdown.

"20 seconds to disaster! T-minus 20...19...18"

"MARC!"

"...17..."

They lowered the boat, stopping for a few moments so that Chris and a few other people could get into position on a dock below. Marc chattered nonstop, while they worked.

Once Chris was ready, the boat was lowered the last few feet into the water and he gingerly stepped aboard his vessel. It didn't take long to see that there was more than one hole in the hull. The wind was sucked out of our collective chests.

Marc flew into hysterics. His cackles soared to impossible Higher tones. Chris looked up at him, furious, the steady rise of water at his feet powerless against the flames in his eyes.

Inexplicably, Marc's brother -after a cursory glance at the outboard motor- sloshed his way to the back of the boat and tried to turn the engine over. Marc was almost crying with laughter. He recognized what was about to happen and he said, "wait, wait, wait..." He had one hand over his stomach; and the other gesturing "halt." It was as if he was pleading with his brother to draw the entertainment out to greater lengths. Asking his brother permission to dwell in this moment of hilarity, for all time.

The engine didn't turn.

Chris yanked on the engine's cord several more times, to no avail. He stopped, staring at the outboard, muttering to himself. With the water cresting the tops of his Nikes he started to bail the boat with a small pail, refusing to give in. Marc yelled, "ABANDON SHIP! ABANDON SHIP! AWWOOOOOOGA! ALL HANDS ON DECK! ABANDON SHIP!"

Chris heatedly scrambled up onto the dock, towards the ladder leading to the pier, pushing people out of his way as he went, ready to kill his brother. All the while, Marc screamed his high pitched laugh: "Aaaaaahaaahaaahaaahaaa!"

Marc saw the red in his brothers eyes and yelled, "RUN!" while his brother angrily started up the ladder. We took off towards our bikes.

Over his shoulder, Marc yelled, "Got a great deal on that submarine!"

****

A couple of years later, Marc and I got into a fight because I had called him a "Headbanger" when we were still newly teenagers. He had gotten into Metallica and bands of that nature. He'd tape "Headbanger's Ball" and lend them to me. I guess that's what clued me in.

I don't understand why he took exception to the moniker. Truth be told, he was the coolest kid I knew. Maybe it was because we lived in a town that allowed zero self expression. Maybe it was because I said it in a less joking way than I intended. Either way, we didn't talk to much after that. And I missed borrowing the tapes.

****

When we started High School I would hear things about Marc. How he had become a "Warlock" or hung out in "The Pit" in Harvard Square, a place where the freaky kids were always welcome; a safe haven for the odd, spookey, and tortured souls. I also heard once that he had, supposedly, been living in a T Station Tunnel. In one of the walls. My response to that was "if that's true that's crazy." But I wanted to know more.

During trips home from High School, on the 93 bus, the kids of Charlestown were unmerciful. They produced fresh insults at a breakneck pace. Marc received no reprieve (especially when he wore his cloak.)

I regret not being cooler to the guy. I wish I had spoken up more and laughed less. Even if it meant my undoing.

****

A couple of nights after the incident with the boat, Marc and I were out on the roof stargazing, wondering whether we'd die if we fell off. All the while we were crunching our way through a family sized bag of Lays potato chips. We climbed back through his bedroom window and discovered that Chris had fallen asleep in Marc's bed. We tried to wake his brother up by imitating Darth Vader's voice by shouting into an antique box fan.

"LUKE! Wake up, LUKE!" I said in my best James Earl Jones, my face smooshed against the fan.

Marc followed with, "WAKE UP! MOTHERFUCKER!"

He drew the sentence out like he was the hero in a slow motion action sequence. He then reached his dirty fingers into the bag, pulled out a chip, and crunched it next to the fan as we both laughed. He found an especially large chip and -just before he ate it- looked at me and paused, grinning ear to ear, then stuffed it into the back of the fan.

"Ftttttppppp!" The chopped-up chip, now dozens of tiny chips, flew out of the fan and onto his corpselike brother, still fast asleep.

We were on the verge of uncontrollable giggles but recovered quickly, recognizing the business at hand.

We popped another chip into the fan. Others followed suit: "ffffttttppp! fffftttttppppp!" One after the other, potato chips met their death, small pieces of their bodies crashing all over Marc's brother and his bed.

As is often the case with adolescent boys, we got a little out of hand. The one funny- sounding chip that quickly turned into several presently morphed into the whole bag.

Marc upended the entire crinkly goddam bag, dumping every last chip into the fan with relish. He smirked like the Grinch.

The fan, now on high, sounded like a tiny little wood chipper. In a moment his brother and bed were covered in an oily yellow blanket. We lost our hold on sanity and fell to the floor in a fit of laughter.

As we were catching our breath Marc said, "Let's go get the Doritos."

****

When his brother finally did wake up, he instantly noticed something was amiss. "Muthrrrrfuggging assholes..." he muttered in his sleep, brushing salty dust off his shirt as he stumbled back to his own bed.

Behind him, on the bed, he left behind the most perfect silhoutte.


-Chris



*A Lie. Michael Christopher broke both an arm AND a leg on a ski-trip to Wildcat Mountain over Christmas break one year. Everyone on the bus had to wait for him while his cast was set. He entered the bus on crutches, to cheers of "Mogul Mike." I had to smile. The last time I had seen him was at lunch.

"Walshy come down the Double Black Diamond with us!"

I'm all for danger but I don't have a death wish.

"Yeah, let me finish this hot chocolate and I'll meet you guys at the top of the hill."

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Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Moment to Moment

I'm a big fan of gadgets. Once a friend of mine was criticizing a guy who was over excited about their iphone and I had to stop her. "I LOVE iphones..." I kind-of blurted. She was really tearing into him too. I know that technology scares a lot of people. The truth is it scares me too but iphones are Awesome. (Note the capitalization.) There are some things that shouldn't be meddled with though. Like vacuum cleaners... My mother got one a few years ago. She called it Robby. "Robby the Rowbit" is how she said it. I found it a little unsettling. I went on-line and googled robots. Oh boy. There are dancing robots and there are robots that can talk... there are also robots fighting part of our war right now. There are also robots that make it harder for me to catch my train. I can't tell you how many times I was running for a train when I was home and I had to stop, put my money into one rowbit just so it'll gimme a card to slide into another rowbit. A time-wasting tag team.


"The Kings of Leon" kick a lot of ass. I never thought I'd say or type the second half of that last phrase but... now I've gone and done it. Never before have I really listened to any album and thought, "I feel like, somehow, they're talking about my life." These guys provoke that reaction. I feel silly for the thought because I'm not 17. (I've never felt 17. Not even when I was 17.) Eternally 12 but never 17. Maybe it's because they're a band that's also a family and my job is working with my brother. If you can call it work. It's more of a calling and we're pretty lazy. Little or no work. Hopefully, this is the year all of that changes. Perhaps it's just because they rock!

There's a place, up North, called The Lakes Region. Winnipesaukee to be exact. I'm pretty sure a piece of my heart is buried there. There are always things that'll flash through my mind, out of nowhere, that mean very little to me. Mostly it's stuff from movies, or something somebody said, or a short lyric from a song... and very rarely does a place pop into my head. However there is one, randomly, that seems to jump out of nowhere. The Lakes Region in New Hampshire. Places with names like Meredith, Laconia, Winnisquam, Wolfeboro, Moltonborough, and Gilford illicit a pang deep in my soul. I feel like I'm always heading back there. On a frozen night when it'll take forever for the heat to warm up the summer house or on a hot day with all of the car windows rolled down. In both instances I'm driving, smiling, and happy but the very thought of it fills me with longing. For good times gone and memories forgotten. Besides, the Kellerhaus probably wouldn't be open when I got there anyways.

Sometimes I wish I could appreciate "the moment" more. There was one moment I completely appreciated recently. My brother and I were hanging out at an infinitely cool place called The Farmer's Market in Los Angeles. It's right next to an outdoor mall that masquerades as cool but doesn't come close, called "The Grove." Every time I go to The Farmer's Market I wonder why I don't go there more. It's got all kinds of great stuff. Especially character. The other night we were planning on seeing "Defiance" at the movie theater next door, at "The Grove", had a a couple hours to kill, and Davey wanted a treat. So, we went to peruse the stores in The Market while there we ran across a full on Country ho-down. I also spotted a creperie which always seems to go unnoticed and I don't know if I'll let that happen any more... I had to order a waffle with strawberries on it. I'm pretty sure it's my new favorite food. It was amazing. So much so that while I was eating I said, loud enough for everyone to hear "this is the best decision I've made in a while!"

There are some moments, though, that you wish you weren't in. I don't know if this qualifies but my brother and I were riding our bikes home from a show the other night on Sunset Blvd. when we were stopped at a red light, not several blocks from our house. While stopped at the light a man was crossing the street with a bandage on his head. He was dressed like a normal person. (The inverse of this would be a maniac, a crazy, or a street person.) As he got closer and eventually passed right by us we could see that he was openly bleeding while he looked at us furtively. Moving steadily and at a good clip for someone with a major head injury. Now, at this point, you may ask, "but didn't you try to help him?" And my answer to you good sir/ good mam is that he was a serious looking individual and he didn't ask for any... We watched him move past and then my brother thought aloud, "How do we know he's not filming a movie down the street? This is Hollywood."

Good Day, Good Year good people,
-Chris