Beyond Concussed

Much of the time spent discussing athletics is focused upon the positive intrinsic characteristics and behavioral values developed by the experience of sports participation. Especially at the youth level, the growth and self-awareness that are fostered by physical and team competition are astoundingly beneficial examples of experiential education. We should all, however, be very concerned about the violence that is acceptable in sports, because it is certainly not acceptable in civilized society.

We have to put this aggression in a context, especially for kids, and give it a solid check ourselves. Informing and debriefing violence, explaining the purposes and consequences, teaching self-awareness, self-discipline, self-regulation, respect for others, and creating standards for the conduct of aggressive behavior are critical to the preservation of both our humanity and morality. Outside the Lines: Danger on the Ice is a video segment produced by ESPN discussing hockey hits in youth sports, concerned mostly with concussions, but the ripple effect far exceeds head trauma.

Violence is defined by Webster’s Dictionary as: “Rough or injurious physical force, action, or treatment”, and this is a major component of most combat sports. According to ESPN, there are 293,691 registered youth hockey players in the US, a large number of young kids involved in a sport that encourages fights, especially when their role models are participating. As violence is defined, tackling, checking, shoving, blocking, etc. are all aggressively physical acts.

On March 8^th, 2011, Zdeno Chara's injurious hit on Max Pacioretty during a Canadians/Bruins game left our mouths agape for all of two seconds, then we accepted it as part of the sport and moved on. There is something terribly wrong with that. The concern with these types of behavior is that they are built into the games themselves. These events are not frowned upon, but rewarded and celebrated. In 2008, according to the Massachusetts Executive Office of Public Safety and Security, there was a rate of 449.4 violent felony assaults per 100,000 people. That this rate is climbing is evidence of a deficiency of values in our culture, one that might be related to sport.

A darker picture of youth athletics comes into focus when considering that the lack of proper contextualization of violence in sport may directly impact the violent behavior of society. In On Killing, Lt. Col. Dave Grossman discusses how human beings have a natural resistance to violence, describing it as a “Universal human phobia.” It is actually a refreshing thought, but as we start to overcome our ingrained resistance to intimate physical contact, we open the door to all manner of sociopathy and inconsistent behavioral characteristics, and unfortunately, traumatized kids can become violent adults. The fact is, we have become very good at finding ways around our natural resistance.

Informing and discussing the consequences of brutality, and instilling standards of behavior discourage kids from resorting to violence. USA Hockey is debating raising the age at which checking is acceptable, and eliminating the angles on the ice (plates of glass 90 degrees rather than curved, the existing lip between the glass and the boards) might decrease the damaging effects of some hits, but we are avoiding the real issue. It seems that no one wants to face the fact that violence begets violence, and that the traditional nature of sport itself is what really needs to change.

Nightmare

I gaze across the desolate expanse. Jaw steadfastly clinched, lips parched, dehydration begins to set in, but my eyes burn. Burn into the desert, unblinking, frightened by the prospect of missing a single second. Skin scorched I stand at the ready, arms at my side, a knarled had wrapped around the rubber grip of a pistol. The rubber has begun to shed; particles have begun to take residence in the palm of my hand as I wait patiently for what approaches on the horizon. Repeating the motion over in my head, I know how to draw the weapon, it’s a swift motion barrel pointed up immediately with a quick twitch of the wrist, in case I need to fire from the hip. A dead sprint from 20 feet would make it hand to hand, I like hand to hand. Raise it to eye level and look at a small detail on the target, squeeze, let it be a surprise, then watch it drop as I absorb the recoil. As I stare painfully into the distance it begins to dawn on me that whatever reveals itself may be of no threat, and yet I prepare myself . . . the expectation of the worst weighing upon me.

           

Suddenly I’m in shackles, shuffling begrudgingly out into the sunlight to be locked into a chain link confinement under the glare of scorching rays. I want to shave, this beard has been growing for months, it itches, it feels like something is living beneath the follicles. I do pushups on my knuckles until they begin to bleed, then streak the blood painfully across the cement with a cringe and continue to do more. The pain feels good, anything to distract me from the situation I’m in. The orange jumpsuit that adorns my feeble frame is tattered, and the undershirt that grips me tightly has turned a disturbing shade of piss. I begin to scream, but no one hears. I rush the fence and curl my fingers through until the webbing of my hand begins to transform into steel. I shake feverishly until the blurs of uniforms start to appear. Olive skin and large bears unhinge the gate and storm me, descending upon me with asps and riot shields, but I can’t move. I begin to weep, and the blood curdling cries are lost to the vastness of the sheet metal. The brutal thumps of metal upon flesh and the curses of a foreign tongue engulf everything, and I struggle like an animal to defend myself, but I still can’t move. My face turns black and blue with every blow and my eyes swell shut, I begin to cough blood while my body involuntarily curls into a fetal position. The petrification consumes me, but the pain, it’s refreshing, like what is on the inside is finally manifest physically. I let out a final cry of “Fuck you”, but it emerges like a soft whimper, I can barely speak, my lip quivers as the cement begins to stain. All goes black.

           

As the lights come up, a scene appears. The Bear Jew urges me to make my approach. He suggested I say something witty and offensive; maybe I nailed it, maybe not. Is the name itself offensive? Perhaps, but if you’ve seen Inglorious Bastards you surely understand, and he sure doesn’t seem to mind, he’s a big guy. He’s a big bald guy actually, heart of gold too . . . or maybe it’s an insidious black, I can’t tell these days. The two are so incredibly intertwined and convoluted. What the fuck does it mean to be a decent person anymore? Who maintains the scoreboard?

           

“Please tell me you’re about to consume something with whiskey in it.”

“What?”

“Sorry, I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and I honestly would be thoroughly offended if that pretty face of yours drank anything less than whiskey.”

“Umm. . . ok.”

“Seriously, I had some respect, just because you have a pretty smile, but I’m in a state where I’ll judge more harshly based on what you drink, so. . .”

How does one respond to such a statement? Keep it simple Dave. “Hi I’m David, what’s your name?” My mind rushes as the scene dissipates. I’m tired of the game, I don’t want to play. I want to say exactly how I feel and if you’re not on board then fuck off. The truth is the honesty that escapes my lips is usually uncharacteristically flattering in most cases, and I feel a bit sorry for those who don’t have the presence of mind to hear me out. Indulge me, you would legitimately be surprised what wonders my sincerity and incredibly observant nature unleashes upon the world. . . Cut.

I lie pronated upon the floor, foam roller beneath my head. I’m shocked by the presence of a football in my hand, I send it spiraling toward the ceiling in a repetitive fashion, snapping my wrist at just the right moment and assuring that my fingers fall into the last two laces like they’re supposed to. A good gym session and a phenomenal shower (is there any other kind? I love water, so pure, so chaotic) find me lying on the floor watching Californication Season 4 on Sidereel with a glass of Jameson in my right hand and a head full of questions. It’s a dark place up there occasionally. I lose sleep not knowing what comes next, what the purpose of my life may be, where the next decision will take me, and whether or not I’m actually capable of connecting with another human being. Most of the guilt I feel for my actions in the military has me wondering if I’m human, if I’m worthy of a life of comfort and satisfaction, if I’m stuck being isolated because few understand what it is like to be a part of something you wholeheartedly disagree with . . . and yet don’t. There’s a rage there, a beast within that still finds people hatefull and deserving of violence . . . I’m torn in two.

I exhale, and like a Star Wars hyperdrive incident I’m shot forward to a balcony scene. A handle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a Sig .40 cal in the other. The cell phone will barely stay on my shoulder I’m squirming so much and the tears streaming down my cheeks are making it slippery, but it doesn’t matter because John’s words aren’t helping. Both efficiently make the pain go away, but which one works faster? I’m intelligent enough to know the answer to the question, but not compassionate enough to care. A hurricane of emotion whips through and carries away my rationality. I place the barrel to the soft spot behind the jaw, right between the mandible bone and trachea . . . Is life just one fantastic catastrophe after the next? What the hell?

I hear a click and awake with a start. My phone torments me with a math problem as “Pusherman” plays in an eerily comforting fashion. I unravel my covers and toss the sweat-soaked pillow across the room. It takes only seconds to remember where I am, but damn that all seemed so real, like a lifetime that transpired in merely a few hours. Shake it off Dave, time to hit the gym.

Herioc

Superheroes are the best representation we have of the characteristics we wish we had. If we take the movie Thor for example (no mystery it was the inspiration for this particular train of thought), here is psychological display of an individual with an ego problem and the means to control and destroy just about everything, but stripped of his power he is left to dig deep within himself to figure out what is important and what is worth sacrificing for.

First of all, we should perhaps examine the fact that the actor they found to play the Mythical God of War is just about the biggest human I’ve ever seen. There is no shame in saying that the man is handsome, he is a pretty man, and when they put him up on the screen with Natalie Portman drooling over him, not only does he tower over her, he compels even the most respectable and naturalistic among us heterosexual males to seek out some shady peddlers of anabolic steroids. Who wouldn’t want to be this guy? Moreover, I don’t even feel sorry for him when he is banished to earth and loses his hammer for being headstrong and bloodthirsty. Hell if the whole golden city in the sky thing doesn’t work out he could probably get a gig as an actor and take up a side job as a mercenary for thrills, while throwing little Natalie over his shoulder and taking her home with him. Wait. . .

I love the 3D thing by the way. I don’t know about wearing some goofy glasses to watch movies at home, but on the massive projection screen at your local cinema it is just downright impressive, and they will no doubt streamline the necessary spectacles in short order. If you have not been to see a 3D movie, seriously, get over your distaste for all that is new and innovative. Occasionally the technological advancements of the human race are not geared towards destruction and do actually make things that much more awesome . . . sometimes both.

Our beloved characters are highly complex and extremely simplistic and idealistic at the same time. Comic books came from myths, legends, and eventually developed into a portrayal of beings (not always human) that have humanistic flaws, enacting impossible feats and conquering forces of evil beyond our capabilities.

The modern day superhero, aside from being a never-ending source of screen-plays, is an embodiment of human emotion and virtue, with more self-awareness and a higher sense of purpose than most of us possess. To take away the required powers we all fantasize about: a means of quick travel (flight, web slinging, super speed, etc.), an ability to disappear (invisibility, stealth, a cloak, etc.), incredible strength, and heightened perceptual and sensational ability, we find ourselves looking at merely a hero. We tout actual heroes in libraries and museums, monuments and statues. To look past a superhero to the fundamental difference between a hero and a villain, we find that the ability to take decisive action in the best interest of humanity is the pivotal ingredient. Selflessness, sound judgment, compassion, courage, and the ability to persevere reveal themselves as the characteristics of every hero, super or monumental.

Notice that none of these individuals operate well under someone else’s authority, they act the most purposefully on their own deduction, and it is this quality in particular that is common among the human and extraordinary heroes alike. Take David Banner’s effort to channel the rage induced Hulk for example, it is his self-awareness and the recognition that he must control his anger in order to do the right thing that really makes him both phenomenally human and unquestionably heroic. Batman is a deontological character, refusing to cross certain moral boundaries with regards to punishing criminals, because he sees actions of this manner as placing him on the same level as those he hunts (a stance oddly similar to that taken by those opposed to capital punishment). 

I guess the point is this: we enjoy watching the struggles and triumphs of these characters because deep down we want to believe that the ability to make these choices and take these stands against the things we see as unjust exists also within us; the ability to do the right thing by our own determination and against all odds. Fortunately for the superheroes, their choices and struggles might be complicated, but their battles and purpose are simple. It is harder to be human, and our thought process has to account for many more factors. I watch these movies not only because I like the dazzling images and special effects, but because there is honesty to the superhero that our lives out here make complicated to possess. Complicated, but not impossible; doing the wrong thing for the right reasons and doing the right thing for the wrong reasons often become convoluted in our own plot lines.

My 5 Stages

At 10:50 pm I was sprawled out across my mattress reading through the text messages of the day and watching the end of a rerun of The Office played on local channel 38. It had been a good day, I woke up late, I went to the library for a while and finished a major portion of the project that was due at the beginning of the week, and I’d gone to a new Chinese food place that had cheap dinner specials with a good friend of mine. As I relaxed for a moment, preparing for the next move of the evening, deciding whether or not to continue studying or pack it in, I received a text message saying “Yo, Osama’s dead.” I was puzzled by this, wondering if it was a joke, and I had to re-read it because at first glance I thought my boy was talking about the president. The difference between the B and the S didn’t register in my mind, and it was honestly more probable that something had happened to him rather than the ghost our country has been chasing for just shy of ten years.

“What?”

“Turn on ABC right now.”

Luckily that’s a channel I pick up in High Definition with the rabbit ears, so I switched it over. Within moments I had shifted from a reclined position to sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at the screen in awe.

“Osama Bin Laden was killed by a guided missile from a predator drone controlled by U.S. Special Forces in a compound just outside of Abbottabad, Pakistan about 1 hour ago.”

Disbelief

I was in shock. Was he still out there? Did everything we’d been doing actually lead us to some intelligence regarding his whereabouts? What perfect symmetry it was that the Navy SEALs seized the opportunity to blow that fanatical war-mongerer out of existence.

Obama appeared about 15 minutes after the initial breaking news story to give a rousing speech, full of bold statements and sentiments about justice and perseverance. By then I’d been on Facebook holding eight different conversations and my phone was vibrating so much it fell off my desk.

I didn’t believe it; I want to see the body, what is all this discussion about a burial at sea? Let’s get some photo evidence, because this guy has been hiding for far too long.

Adulation

I moved past this eerie state and my heart began to flutter. What if it is true!? What if we really got that motherfucker? Well hell I don’t want him buried at sea, I want to drag his body through the streets on national television and piss and spit on him like the Somalis did to the slain Special Forces operatives in ’99, or like the insurgents do when they capture people and behead them on portable handheld video cameras from back-alley basements somewhere deep within the walls of Iraqi cities or an obscure cave somewhere deep within the bowels of the tunnel system that snakes through the Hindu Kush. “I need to drink heavily, fuck something, and fuck someone up all at the same time! Where’s my bottle of Jameson!?” Let’s get on the news and scream “Fuck you” at the top of our lungs and claim retribution for the millions of lives inexorably altered by the actions of this lunatic.

I needed my punching bag, the one I’d used duct tape to turn into a person. The one I gave a face and let out my post traumatic aggression on mercilessly at wee hours of the morning on my balcony in Arizona to the dismay of my neighbors. I felt lightheaded and exuberant . . . and . . .

Anger

Infuriated, I was so mad I couldn’t see straight, I put my conversations on pause and gritted my teeth. I flipped the blade of my Smith and Wesson knife open and closed repeatedly as my chin started doing its jumpy thing. I felt my face grow flush.

It wasn’t good enough. He doesn’t get to die an instant death at the behest of an explosion. We should have pinned him up against a wall by his hands and feet and used him for target practice. Capture him and put him in a soundproof room with me and let me get diabolical about how to induce pain. Don’t torture him for information; just torture him because the fucker deserves it.

I was livid, despite my views on religion, at that moment I hoped there was a hell and that he was in it burning with all of the other demented psychopaths who’d blown up women and children, destroyed innocent people and their lives like it was some sick game that they had some strategy for. I hoped he was playing backgammon with hitler while being raped repeatedly by bloodthirsty demons. I hoped he’d find out that all 72 virgins were vicious ogres bred solely for the purposes of using his sphincter as a merry-go-round.

Depression

All of my ferocity and desire for this man to have suffered a vicious and maniacally gory death gave way to a chilly sense of complete and utter isolation. I reached out to my brothers who are still in the military, seeking validation. Suddenly I was consumed by the notion that my purpose is now meaningless, that everything I’ve done since the Navy has been selfish and pointless. I considered that I should be fighting, that this act in which U.S. Navy SEALs hit a high value target with extreme precision was an example of our fight being just. I reflected on all of my experiences.

I got out of the military because I don’t believe in the fight as much as needed to in order to complete the tasks set before me. It was a cruel bit of irony really that I chose not to be a SEAL and was sent to Guantanamo to finish out the final chapter of my enlistment as a babysitter for belligerent detainees. I used to have some disturbing nightmares, and conceal a large amount of guilt for what I was a part of and bearing witness to both the most unbridled reckless rage within myself as well as humanity.

Years of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and personal reflection have revealed that I’m not a monster, but instead that I have the capacity to be who I have to, based on my circumstances and personal judgment. But not everyone can endure what I did, or what those in the military are, it takes a level of mental fortitude and courage possessed by few. It was an honor and a privilege to serve with those I did, in my mind there is no higher calling than protecting those you love and watching the backs of those who stand with you. So many go forth to fight and die while I comfortably earn a graduate degree and find a pleasant way to make an income, and that is something that constantly haunts me. I may just be another number out there, but I think about my brother-in-law and the men who accompanied me into the breach time and time again, and perhaps being simply a number out there means more than being a number here.

Clarity

As I sit here at the end of my venting session and contemplate the events of last night and the wave of emotion that has crashed over me, I’m frightened of the perpetual blood feud that the United States is involved in. After I threw my laundry in the wash this morning I walked out to the low wall in front of the Laundromat and took a seat in the glow of the morning sun. I watched for twenty minutes as the world went about its business; the cars moved swiftly back and forth on the painted asphalt, people walked hurriedly in and out of buildings, almost sprinting down the sidewalk with headphones in, heading somewhere they deem personally important. It was like the morning after a birthday, when insignificance is personified.

I remember one of the images that infuriated me last night was that of the various locations at which Americans were out celebrating in the early hours of this morning, acting like idiots on national television, rejoicing the death of an ideological figurehead in front of the entire world. Do we really think this changes anything? Our excitement is founded in reason, we went after the man responsible and killed him . . . but he’s not the only one responsible, and he doesn’t lead an army of conquered peasants. These jihadists won’t lay down their weapons and go home because we hunted and slaughtered the pop-culture icon of terrorists. How would we react if we saw the enemy delighting in the death of our leader? I’d be locked and loaded, hollow points in the chamber, pulling the desert BDUs out of hibernation. We perpetuate this cycle of death, and all I can do is hope that we might now be more inclined to cut our losses and say something along the lines of “Both sides have suffered, we have to end the bloodshed” rather than continuing the cyclical war of retaliation.

I fear now, as most of those close to me do, that this may be the beginning of an even darker time. I want to be wrong; I would like the world to prove me wrong. I fight no more because my contribution or death would simply add to the pile of corpses, but I feel like a coward because I choose not to accompany my brothers in arms and improve their chances of returning home unscathed. At the end of the day it is all about chance, there is no reason why things happen, they just do, and to think that we control anything beyond our own reactions is simply a fool’s errand. The ripple effect from ending the life of a man responsible for altering the course of history and the manner in which nations conduct themselves will be massive. I’m not sure what that means, but I’m anxious to find out. Prepare for the worst, because it is often more likely, but hope for the best because as balance goes that occasionally transpires as well.

The Place Across The Street: Round Two

9:00-?

It was about 8:40 PM when we left the library. The dank moratorium of solitude had thoroughly weighed me down, and I felt as though the word document I was composing had absorbed all of my remaining creativity like a sponge. I was rapidly approaching stir crazy, so I convinced Mad-Libs that it was indeed time to exit the premises.

(Side note: My good friend is referred to as “Mad-Libs” as a result of his circumstantial inability to find the appropriate words to express his thoughts, his consistent referencing of the library as “Libs,” and because he is an overconfident little scoundrel. - and KJ is a namesake genius - If you’re familiar with the clip from Family Guy where they interview Floyd Wetherton . . . then you know this individual. Now, I speak his unique language, can usually understand what he’s trying to say, and on rare occasions his thoughts are surprisingly insightful. It may be harsh, English is his second language, but in all fairness he’s had years to practice . . . and it’s just downright hilarious.)

After some deliberation over desired toppings, I placed an online order to Dominos and we walked out into the blustering wind. In all my wisdom I went with a t-shirt. The temperature was 55 degrees, but I hadn’t accounted for the wind. Consequently, I did isometic upper body contractions during the eight minute walk home in an attempt to keep the blood circulating. Gotta love inconsistent New England weather.

Dominos is quick with service in Boston, though not so much Papa John’s, which is quite disconcerting. I always like that the Papa designates cheese as the actual topping rather than the other stuff that usually gets haphazardly tossed on the surface. It really is a groundbreaking concept; the cheese provides a layer of protection so that things don’t fall off. I dig it, but they move at a snail’s pace. I made it up the four flights of stairs to set my bag down and kick off my shoes moments before the buzzer rang. I knowingly nodded my head, fighting the exasperation with thoughts of delicious pizza, and made my descent. The two medium pizzas were consumed within minutes and I had my head glued to the window making sure this experiment would commence without our having to wait in the line I so relentlessly mock.

By 9:30 I was on the aforementioned stoop polishing off the remnants of the ever-so-terrible Keystone Light, made more-so by its skunky essence, which had been left in my refrigerator. I was eyeing our target with grave intent. Like the true military tactician I am, I painted it as a soft target judging by the foot traffic moving that direction. One could also refer to it as a target-rich environment, gauging the undergraduate, got-drunk-at-midnight-for-my-21^st-a-week-ago, talented young nubiles entering this place.

Allow me to take a moment to accurately describe the women of the Boston area from a working man’s perspective. I served my country in a Post-Traumatic-Stress, alcohol-in-one-hand-pistol-in-the-other, nightmare inducing extreme kind of way. I never back down when I know I’m right. I stand for things moral and just, and protect those I love. I have earned every dollar I have ever made, and every ounce of respect I have ever received. I consider myself to be fairly intelligent, and have almost completed a graduate degree, even though my brutal honestly and ability to voice my view of reality is occasionally not well-received. Where I come from, those characteristics make you a decently successful and upstanding young man . . . not in Boston.

 I know not what these women are looking for, but I’m convinced it isn’t worthwhile intelligent conversation, a quality beverage in good company, or a wealth of expertly orchestrated sexual positions. It is all about green. As magnificently attired as they are, adeptly concealing every physical flaw with the appropriate garment, and painting their facial canvases up like Norman Rockwell had been instructing them for years, the majority of the women in the bars, clubs, and pubs at night are very skilled at developing a quality presentation. I’m a big fan of eye candy, but until I discover a way to break through that ignorant, entitled, undeserved self-assured attitude, that’s all these well constructed females will be.

If anyone ever spits to you that used up line about the game having changed while you were off getting coddled in a quality interpersonal relationship, hit ‘em right in the mouth. Do yourself a favor and watch Swingers sometime soon, even if you’ve already seen it, and tell me that mid-90’s cinematic masterpiece isn’t still on point.

We didn’t enter this place like a couple of lions stalking prey on a Saharan plane, no Sir, we just walked in like the sport-obsessed meatheads we are and grabbed a few beers . . . and then preceded to shoot some hapless digital animals stuck in the programming of Big Buck Hunter. We left the beckoning wooden bar-top initially because two of the aforementioned type of women turned their noses up at us when we positioned ourselves in close proximity. As I, in my t-shirt, jeans, and backwards Boston Red Sox hat, ordered my preferred Brick Red Ale, and set a scarred hand on the bar, the smaller one made eye contact with me, and literally jutted out her chin and let out a “Humph” as she looked away. Perhaps in my eyes she saw the fit of laughter I was trying desperately to contain upon notice of the strange compactness of her face, no telling.

As the night transpired, we relocated to a booth that adorned the back wall so that I could further observe. I began to take notice of an awkward looking pair of chaps after the third time they accosted a couple of unsuspecting girls. Immediately invading their personal space, and hosting engagements that routinely ended in two minutes flat, they were hard to miss. When our beloved bear-like compatriot arrived, Mad-Libs couldn’t resist:

“Yo, check out these two assholes over here. The one tall dude, well kinda, wearing that thing that looks like it’s made outta his mom’s drapes, and the littler dude with the too-tight shirt who looks kinda gay. These kids are terrible.”

“Which ones?”

“Yo, the douchebag with the bedazzle beads on his jeans, and the jackass with the glasses.”

“Oh, those guys, what about em’?”

“Just watch this shit.”

As if on cue, the shorter of the two guys took a gigantic sidestep into the path of these unfortunate lasses, swiftly placing a hand on the elbow of the more surprised of the two. Within moments, the girl talking to the taller individual began to take baby steps backwards, while the other merely seemed to lean away from the man who had physically apprehended her. It was a magnificent spectacle, a cyclical display that almost entirely replicated the Saturday Night Live sketch of Night at the Roxbury.  

“Wow. Just . . . Bravo Fellas.”

We migrated, as dynamic alcohol consuming animals do, and found ourselves at a table towards the center of the room. We honestly never even considered braving the depths of the dance floor in the back room, I was honestly too concerned with how bad the smell might be or whether or not there would be adhesive substances on the floor. I’d seen people stumble out of here; not interested to follow their journey to drunken stupidity, we stayed in the front where things appeared relatively composed and undemonstrative. Relatively.

It must have been nearing 12:30 because Mad-Libs made a run for the train. “I’ve gotta take off, I don’t wanna pay for a cab.” KJ and I sat undisturbed for an instant before two girls assaulted our peaceful table. Apparently the unthinkable had happened, what drama could have possibly transpired? The shorter of the two was cute, a brunette with pouty lips, a white blouse, and a black skirt that fantastically accentuated her figure. She was apparently in a state of emergency and needed to commandeer a stool for her wounded companion. As she made haste towards the bathroom for some papertowels or something, her slightly taller friend appeared. Similar appearance, though softer features, she had darker hair and we’d have to wait a few minutes to find out that she had a dazzling smile. Does everyone here just use massive amounts of teeth whitener? Is there no enamel to be found?

“She sure got a purdy mouth” I mumbled, but KJ didn’t hear me. He was in counselor mode, his face just radiant with empathy and compassion, eyes almost welling with tears though he had no idea what had happened, the gentlest smile itching to be displayed to make it all better. He’s a massive stuffed animal. That’s how most guys should get when we see a pretty girl crying, but not me. I just get mad, protective instinct kicks in and I want to fix whatever’s broken. Males are predominantly solution-based creatures; don’t come to us with a problem until you’re ready to settle it.

She had approached like the girl from The Ring, paying no attention to us, hair concealing most of her face, tears running down the side of her cheeks. (I don’t understand that, how do tears only fall down the outside of some people’s faces, is it just the contour lines or what?) She sat down next to us and we quickly coaxed out the information, I for my own amusement, and my associate because, well like I said, he was in counselor mode. Her ex-boyfriend was in the place with another girl, no big deal, but he’d been with her for 3 years and broke it off because he “Didn’t want to be tied down in college.” Now aside from the obvious observation that being in a bar with someone doesn’t necessarily insinuate “Couple”, I have to ask: when are we going to learn to just tell the truth, and if unwilling to divulge said reality, maybe be more original?

Ex:

“Sorry Babe, I have no more positions I want to try out on you. I need another guinea pig, preferably one who’s been hitting the treadmill and thigh adductor machine more regularly.”

“Honestly, this thing has run its course, best of luck in all your endeavors. I’ll probably call you up drunk a few times, feel free to answer and go out of your way to come take care of business thinking there’s a chance I’m a decent dude after all.”

“Look, I’m just really bored; maybe you’re just not much fun. I’m down to slip you some caffeine pills or have you chug an energy drink and see what happens once or twice, but I think I’m all set.”

“I’m a dude, I need to spread my seed, and rubbing it around on your stomach doesn’t count . . . it is cool though, maybe we could make arrangements to keep that thing going?”

Or maybe in this guy’s case: “Uh, sorry girl, I’m way too young not to chase after some other skanks. I’m supposed to be learning new moves and defiling sorostitutes. What?”

It is a fair approach and it doesn’t leave girls hopeful and ultimately bawling their eyes out to some strange guys at a bar. Why not call it like you see it. “I’m tired of you”, “You’re not doing it for me anymore”, “I’m at a point where watching internet porn is just less effort and more fulfilling.” At first you’ll be seen as a heartless villain, but fear not, you’re in good company. Hey, if you let her go, why do you care if she still likes you? By the time she hits 30 she’ll say something along the lines of: “At least he was honest.” There’s no real way to soften the blow, and if you try to, you’re just being cruel. I’ve figured this out, and I have no desire to repeat the slung-together string of vulgar syllables I contrived to describe the guy who left this beautiful woman weeping in public.

Alas, the furry objective perspective finally made his exit, in an attempt to catch the last train headed a few chilly miles past Fenway; leaving only my calloused posture to tend to this injured young fawn. Her friend had long since vanished into the depths of the befouled back room in search of similar ventures to those of her ex. I wavered for a moment, not really knowing how to approach the “Moving on” portion of this conversation. All I could think to do was to make her smile and encourage her to accept the situation for what it is. I discovered she was a Biochemical engineer, moving to California in short order to work for Intel. Um, wow. So, why then was she so hung up emotionally?

“An intelligent gorgeous woman such as yourself, this dude must have one magnificent member to coax out so many tears.”

Biggest smile of the night.

“I tell you what, I’ve got a bottle of Jameson, two glasses, and a fire escape that I only wish was more comfortable. You want some contact comfort? ‘Cause I got that.”

A slight shake of the head, but I’d been drinking, I’m a dude, and I’d seriously been counseling in a bar for 45 minutes.

 “I don’t know what else to actually say, the dude is garbage . . . I bet I’m more skilled.”
 

I threw her a wink, and for the first time she created an awkward silence. I don’t deal well with women that are either awkward or silent, and she had successfully combined the two. The tears had gone, and I fancied myself as fairly affable since I had made her laugh, so I was quite confused. In the midst of my perplexity I ordered a shot of Jameson, which thankfully arrived as a double. In one foul swoop I downed the shot, contorted my face for an instant, looked at her and said:

“So that’s it then? You good? . . . Well I just got used, and not in the good way.” Pointing towards the back, “I think your friend is probably stuck to the floor by now, there’s probably still time to get plastered yourself.”

She stood in shock as I threw her a peace sign and sauntered out into the glow of the streetlights.

The Place Across The Street: Reassessment

April:

I hadn’t returned to this establishment for quite some time because Crossroads is closer for KJ, Button Nose, and The Burgs. An Irish Pub also, Crossroads was a place of legend until one manager was let go, and the well endowed angel from Ireland’s visa expired and she returned from whence she came. My dusky hued female Lebanese version of Troy Polamalu still serves plentiful drinks and has a wicked tongue that rivals my own, as well as an inherent racism that is particularly troubling, so most nights I would consider nowhere else a suitable location for a liquid debrief.

I live on the 4^th floor and one of my windows is always open because there is an air conditioning unit in it that I installed with brute force and copious amounts of duct-tape. This atmospheric vulnerability can occasionally result in lost sleep or an inability to hear the TV even with a surround sound system. Many’s the night I am plagued with the drunken cackles of those stumbling out of An Tua Nua, and the infuriating honking of car horns as the taxi’s block the street. Stop honking already, most of the time if people aren’t moving they probably have nowhere they can go, honestly, where do you have to be anyway? As irritating as the scene may be, it is also quite entertaining.

I tend to conduct my beverage-soaked recapitulation on the stoop of the apartment building when the weather is nice. Depending on the entourage, who walks by, and what events are occurring in the street, it exists as an unending source of entertainment. It has been suggested by some that I acquire a small stereo of some sort, to add a soundtrack to the scene, or pick up a few lawn chairs at the local economy hardware. I feel, however, that it defeats the purpose and effortlessness of simply sitting on the steps, drinking a beer, and enjoying good company and witty (and not-so witty) banter. Admittedly some country or hip-hop would liven up the atmosphere, but given my own nature and those of my associates, I’m not sure rowdy would be a good thing.

I have observed a line wrap around the block to get into this place every Thursday night for months. Some of the best humor that comes my way on my stroll home is often passing by this line hearing the bouncer at 1 AM: “It’s one. Why the fuck are you guys still out here? If you have somewhere else to go you should fucking go there because there is no way you’re gettin’ in here tonight!” Moments pass with no movement, and the exasperated doorman shakes his head. “Alright . . . you’ve been informed, wait your asses out here in the cold if you want. I don’t care.” Turning directly to some of the girls in the back of the line wearing skin-tight skirts barely covering the crack where their legs meet: “Hun, you’re not cold, seriously?”

Intrigued, I decided to find out some night what all these idiots were waiting for. I’ve been in there; it is a cool place, but not a level of fantastic that isn’t replicated by other watering holes. Left only to assume that the caliber of individuals must have this overwhelming draw, it was time to investigate further. Gauging the superficial qualities of the women entering this institution of higher alcohol consumption, there is indeed potential for at least some pleasant eye candy if nothing else. Why not?    

The Place Across The Street: Round One

An Tua Nua is a small Irish Pub that sits diagonally across Beacon Street from my apartment building. Don’t ask me how to pronounce the name properly, I feel like an idiot when the words escape my lips anyhow, and I’ve heard it said multiple ways. “This is America, I speak American.” Painted red on its outward face, it is nestled cozily between a shop that sells vacuum cleaners and a flouriest, and some taller apartment buildings coated in white and black. The place is legitimately Irish; if the Gaeilge name isn’t obvious enough, two orange, white, and green flags are displayed prominently all seasons of the year on either corner of the edifice like perked up dog ears. There is no mistaking what country this bar supports. It bears a slight resemblance to the souped-up SS Impalas I used to see driving around the Naval Base in Norfolk Virginia, with 22” rims that no doubt did a grave disservice to the brake pads and University of Georgia flags mounted in both the passenger and driver’s side windows. My boy Perry used to drive real slow with the seat laid back a bit too far, it was like traveling on a reclining sofa, comfortable but quite dangerous.

July:

I first entered this establishment when I arrived in Boston almost nine months ago and found myself with little to do one summer evening. At the time my over-sized bedroom had no air conditioning and I hadn’t yet placed my big fans in the windows. With the humidity at 90%, even sprawling out naked on the floor was a miserable experience. I thought I would love the place because there were flat screen TVs playing sports, Sam Adams Brick Red Ale only served in the bean on tap, and tied knots in frames adorning the walls. I’m a sailor, I love knots, rope, tying stuff underwater (who doesn’t?), and dive bars that pour Jameson in double shots every time. Not to mention that the night I went in there, an amazing looking blond was working behind the bar who had played college basketball . . . actually held an intelligent conversation with me too, go figure. What was this splendid shrine to everything I hold dear?

It might have been pre-season football I was watching, and the more I sipped on my buttery whiskey, the louder my commentary on the proceeding competition became. It was a Tuesday night and there were maybe ten people in the place. I became increasingly animated and the bartender appeared to have less and less to do, so once she let out a few cute giggles in response to my personal blend of profanity and difficult to pronounce words (ex: “Pontificating piece of shit”), I struck up a conversation. It didn’t take me long to forget her name, my memory is the first thing to fail me once inebriated, and she was stone sober and ready to go home once she was cut due to low client volume, so she wasn’t particularly forgiving of drunken inability to remember specifics. We were saying goodbye, and I stored her phone number under “E,” which must have thoroughly offended.

I called her “Madam” for a couple of reasons. I personally like the word and feel chivalry is not dead as long as there is but one to practice it, I become quite agreeable and polite when imbibing alcohol, and of course the obvious rationale she picked up on, which was that her name escaped me. Better than saying it incorrectly, right? Alas, that one got away. Then I received objective feedback:

“Ay, tha was harsh.”

“I gave it a solid effort I thought.”

“I don’t deny ya tha, better luck next time.”

Emmet was a young red-headed Irishman, visiting the states on business, and in true foreigner fashion he was staying within his comfort zone. He had seen the flags like beacons in the night, heard the distant ding of the bell on the rocking buoy, and been guided to this well stocked oasis. Some statement I made about hits in football compelled him to show me video clips on his phone of a game I cannot to this day remember the name of (see a pattern emerging?) where guys are simply hitting each other across the face with sticks, it was hilarious. Perhaps that sounds heartless, but my compassion is reserved for those not volunteering for such epic abuse. For some reason I was determined to get this guy laid while he was in town. I’d been here myself for less than a month and only had a few similarly ill-gotten phone numbers of local women, but by my hazy logic that only made it a more exciting venture. A man needs a sense of purpose.

The walk from Beacon Street to Lansdowne has since become a routine event. I now know almost every crack in the asphalt, the spots available for climbing in the chain link fence that don’t have barbed wire at the top, the way I have to position myself to maneuver through the bent-up gate when it’s locked shut (I can only surmise that a car hit that thing very hard, because I don’t know how else metal twists like that), and every recession to avoid when the rain is cascading over this fair city. I’ve soaked some serious sneakers figuring out that little tidbit of information.

We went into Lansdowne Pub on a Tuesday night, and as could be expected, the place wasn’t exactly booming. The Irishman and I were on a mission, however, and despite my inability to remember particulars like names and conversational content (you know, minor details) I was actually fairly productive. The ol’ bait’n’switch worked well a couple times, and my contact list felt a bit heavier. The last thing I remember was shaking his hand as he was about to leave with some decently attractive older lady I’d introduced him to; I think her name was Cathy, but I’m undoubtedly wrong. We’d had a good conversation, but I didn’t have an Irish accent. As I made my less than graceful way back up the hill towards home, it occurred to me that Americans are despised, boisterous, and nationalistic, so I don’t ever get to be the foreigner with the cool accent. Bummer, but cheers Kid.

Vision

Our life experiences color our perceptions of the world. This is something I harp on consistently as well attempt to be aware of within myself. I work feverishly to notice it, and make a concerted effort to interpret the various messages that scroll across the screen behind my eyes, because it is important to acknowledge where these thoughts come from and choose whether or not to accept them. Our views are valid and true to the best of our knowledge, that is to say “True to us”, and I have no intention of invalidating any personal views, but I do think they very effectively blind us. One of the most important messages I have ever heard a college professor pass along came from the tenured vulgar mouth of my research methods instructor.

Dr. Jake Jac. is a bald man of small stature, while bearing an intimidating demeanor, and a shamelessly self-centered arrogance. He and his loyal entourage of TAs walked into class on the first day of the semester, he placed a notebook down on a small podium, and he said:

“There is no such thing as faith, love, free will, or any of that bullshit, and if you don’t like it get the fuck out now because I don’t want to hear any bitching.”

Not a soul shifted in their seat. How does one respond to such a statement? PSYC 290 was a core requirement. I feel like most stayed right where they were due to an uneasiness as to the consequences of exiting at that moment . . . not me, I wasn’t going anywhere. I loved it, well, I was thoroughly intrigued and in wholehearted agreement. Every student in the college of social and behavioral sciences had to get through that class . . . and get through him. It was kind of an initiation class that I’m surprised to this day I got through, because after the first few lectures, where he spoke for two hours tearing down all of our irrational belief structures, it got excruciatingly tedious and boring. He would speak nonstop and the only other sounds to be heard were the frantic keystrokes of every over-achiever attempting to capture his exact words. The man stated at the beginning, along with his “Reign of terror” statement, that he’d rather we remain engaged and hear what he had to say than miss it all trying to take notes. I don’t often take notes anyway, or read textbooks for that matter; I found his lectures online and listened to them over again before tests.

He was a hard-nosed scientist who was analytical and open-minded enough to even recognize that all of our sciences could be complete garbage as well, even with their methods of checks and balances. I respected him, and even went to a couple of his office hours to ask him questions that I thought might leave him with a new angle to consider. When I asked him for a recommendation for graduate school he scoffed at me, saying that he didn’t write letters for undergrads who hadn’t worked in his lab. Made sense, there were over 200 kids in the class, but I pushed it. I revealed to him that I was a Navy Vet, stated my case that all of my classes were astronomically huge, and that as sad as it was I had had more face time with him as a professor than anyone else. He told me he’d consider it further and thanked me for my service, but I never heard anything else and was too irritated to be persistent. I remember him well though, not only because it was one of the most informative classes I have ever taken, but because he taught an idea, I thought I was one of the only people to grasp, on a large scale.

He said: “It isn’t important whether or not you believe or agree with anything. It might be to us personally, but who the fuck are we? What’s important is that you understand everything for what it is.”

Like I said, I loved it . . . even if love is just some made-up concept to describe an emotion we have no idea why we feel. Mostly because the truth is this, we are all wounded in one way or another. Mental wounds are the signs of a life thoroughly lived, just as lacerations, bumps, bruises, broken bones and all the rest are the physical signs that you are happening.

Mental wounds are no different from the physical; they alter, to whatever degree, the manner in which we interact with the world. When you rip off a scab too many times you get a scar, if you cut the cutaneous tissue deep enough you get a scar . . . well what’s different? We have psychological scars just as we would superficial, and for quite the same reasons. Our triggers get tripped, whether or not it is a good thing we remember certain occurrences is debatable, but we do, and we are constantly ripping our wounds open and creating the blemishes that tattoo our minds. This is where schemas come from, this is why we approach situations as though they are the same as ones we’ve previously engaged in, this is why our relationships tend to look, for better or worse, similar in a lot of ways. We have expectations of our environment based on what has had an impact on us, and it shapes our values and points of view.

Just remember this though, your views are exactly those, “Yours.” They do not reflect an objective view of reality, but one seen through a lens. It’s like looking through a kaleidoscope. If we are conscious of this, then we can learn to accept and understand things for what they are, and operate much more efficiently to address the systems that surround us, and leave this place with some cool looking scars of its own.