My Town, My City

Headphones in, I sit on the N bound for Queens, nodding my head with the sounds of Danger Mouse, looking around noticing every last detail on each advertisement for the local news broadcast, trying not to make eye contact with anyone on the train but when I do I just continue to nod me head and smile. The train rumbles along first underground then high above stopping eleven times before I finally reach checkpoint number two along my trek; standing, I adjust the straps on my backpack and exit the almost empty car. As I stroll down Astoria Boulevard, the streets smell the distinct scent of wet trash mixed with urine on a hot summers night, every now and then the faintest scent of food finds its way into my nostrils, a familiar feeling strikes me, the same scent I would get walking late night down the streets back home, I smile at this simple but strange pleasure as I inch closer to my final destination on this long arduous night.

Once again I find myself becoming familiar with this city of New York, one vastly different but still very homelike for me. I walk with a certainty to my step, moving quickly, owning the sidewalk. As the music changes so do my steps, a hop here a little bounce there, little hand motions (not enough that people really notice). I have been here only a handful of times in my life and I am all ready to claim it as my city. Years before I had laid claim to Boston as my city, but now before this vastness before me, these miles of untraversed sidewalk, it seems merely like my town, sure it's great and I am and will always be proud to call myself a Bostonian, but it is time to turn the page on the book known as Brian and New York seems to be the favorite for the next big adventure. Sure it helps to have a beautiful girl there already to nudge me in that direction, but I like to think that this decision was my own. It is a city that offers everything, most of all a chance to find out if I truly have what it takes to make it as a writer in this world, and no matter where I go, I am never seeing the same thing twice, everyone different, every shop even more extravagant than the last, a street block dedicated solely to four consecutive shops all selling beads. The city has something for everyone, and to a city person like me the grid system is a welcome sight compared to the street memorization of Boston.

I cross my third block and begin the silent countdown in my head of street numbers until I can finally lie down. On my right I pass a secondhand shop selling among other things, a book case collection of used VHS tapes, a leather restaurant booth, couches, chairs, and tables stacked upon each other in front of the store. After that a trailer which has taken up permanent residence selling falafel, sits with its lights on indicating to all that yes they are open for business, which is apparently what the boy inside was doing to the server girl, as he seemed determined to suck her brains through her mouth, and she was loving every minute of it. Ah yes the little things one notices make the world go round, in an age where everyone is in a rush to get somewhere it is nice to slow things down and notice the little things around you, life moves fast best to slow it down enough to enjoy it once in a while. Finally seeing a shop that accepts credit or debit cards I hop inside and order a pack of smokes, for thirteen bucks I could have gotten myself a halfway decent dinner, but instead I chose to shorten my life five minutes at a time with my box of me time. Lighting one up and taking a puff, I am careful not to blow the smoke at passersby instead opting for the nasal release, all the while imaging myself as a mighty dragon exhaling the fumes from the fire burning inside of me. I smile to myself and continue on my merry way, only five more streets to go, I can already feel her arms around me as she wraps her legs around my knees and plays koala. Finally crossing my last street before entering her building, I flick my cigarette to the ground and watch as it lays burning, until I step on it making sure to drag my foot backwards, stamping out all of its remaining life. Stepping onto the elevator I push the seventh floor, hook my thumbs in my arm straps and arrive at my destination.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at Pino

This one goes out to Rusty because he asked for something about the man who is Joe Pino. Also I would be posting a new blog today but I didn't return home last night until around 1 am, and I promptly had to get up and out of my house at five o'clock for work, so I am le tired and you will have to wait until tomorrow for my newest post. So for your enjoyment here it is....

Thirteen Ways of Looking at Pino
I.
Among the football linesmen
One man stands as king.
Pino surveys his men and is satisfied.

II.
I couldn’t help but notice the enormity of man that stood before me.
Number sixty-eight produced a shadow like no other,
And I thought to myself
This man must be king.

III.
As Pino shouted out orders
The world stopped to listen

IV.
The grass of the field crumbled under the weight of Pino’s feet
The blades stayed bowing long after his presence had passed

V.
Though the accomplishments of the king often go neglected;
Pino remains proud having done his job.
The modest king among men,
Might not even realize it.

VI.
After the carnage the battlefield lay covered in blood and sweat of those fallen.
Dirt over-turned the once green field,
As the villagers went to work restoring it to its original beauty.
The defeated warriors return to the land from whence they came.
Among those left was the mighty Pino
Now making ten dollars an hour to drive the fallen Johnson’s mighty Volkswagen steed.

VII.
A warning to all men who do not realize the greatness of Pino.
You worship a God you cannot see;
But why can you ignore this God among us?
Fear that his wrath is swift and vengeful
And one you might find yourself falling in.





VIII.
Pino in his castle is mild and modest.
A jealous brother broods before picking a fight.
Though tears are shed neither quits
Until Pino reigns supreme as the victor.

IX.
Placed in front of his wizards communication connection to the world
Pino remains anonymous.
Though no one knows who is watching
They still respect his ominous presence and power after witnessing his awesome force.

X.
In his imaginary world Pino rules by a new name,
This one more vengeful and ruthless.
He stalks through the terrain with his army at his side,
Claiming souls left and right.

XI.
But this is not just Pino’s world
As the many enemies flock against him.
The once mighty king now cowers,
Before the amassed forces against him.

XII.
In a final resurgence of strength,
Pino calls to his side his trusted companions.
Together they will make a last rush,
To try and win this battle.

XIII.
But even his most faithful desert him,
And the once proud king is defeated.
The Mighty Pino has fallen.

Whitey Bulger has been captured and who cares?

I do, you're god damn right I care that the FBI has finally put an end to that chase, and it's not because I remember being a kid in Somerville and hearing stories about him constantly. Hearing how you'll never guess who bought us all dinner last night at the restaurant or how another of my friends had a parent or relative arrested. After a while all that shit becomes a big pile of shit that is too dense and thick to even pick the little memorable tidbits out of, like the corn you swear you hadn't eaten that surfaces a week later when you can barely remember if it was off the cob, from a can, or ingested at a restaurant, that's what those stories are to me nothing but shit. Instead I care because it finally puts a close to a case that should have ended long before it got to this point, we have been waiting so long for the capture of James "Whitey" Bulger for so long that his horribleness, his grotesque, his awful wickedness have all been lost in the sands of time. No one of my generation has a clue about what a time it was, not just in Somerville where Bulger's Winter Hill Gang controlled the streets, but all through Boston nay beyond that all the United States. In a time where drugs, guns, and money ran this corrupt city I so love, Bulger was king, never having to fear anyone, never giving two shits about who he had murdered, not even caring about ratting his so called closest friends out to the FBI. Truely Whitey Bulger was a souless, black hearted, creature (I refuse to refer to that as human, as I believe to be human means to have empathy for the fellow man which Whitey clearly did not), I never met the man but I have heard all the stories, I have read a few of the books, and I have followed closely on the news as any good intelligent Bostonian should do. Whitey has become something of a cult legend, someone who is no longer seen as this awful terrible person who murdered people, but instead as the man who is so old that people didn't think we should be chasing him anymore, as if his sixteen years on the "run" was somehow enough to give him a free pass, Whitey apparently hit the magic fucking number for how long you must evade the cops before people forgive you altogether (hear that Roman Polanski? It's time for you to come back stateside and make awesome fucking movies again you forgiven child toucher you). In all honesty the man will never live to serve out half of the time he would need to serve for anyone who lost someone close to them to feel any sense of closure, he's 81 years old and no matter how good of health he is in he will die relatively soon, too soon if you ask me. The other option is that Whitey is found guilty and sentenced to death which again at the ripe old age of 81 would be almost redundant, hasn't he already lived a full and fulfilling life, if by fulfilling you consider murdering people, doing massive amounts of drugs, and making shit tons of money, enemies, and followers, which I must admit sounds like he has pretty much accomplished everything he ever set out to do and has definitely not fallen into the BJ Upton Syndrome (oooo previous blog post drop my first one). So the problem remains what to do with the now captured scourge of Somerville, and I don't have the slightest idea I just know that whatever happens it won't be nearly enough.

Just one more quick note, please anyone who might write yet another book about him, stop now don't do it you just look like an ass for capitalizing on other people's real misery.

I am not much for apologies

I am a man who believes that most apologies are nothing more than empty words used to ease the tension when you either realize you have said or done something wrong, or you are just too tired of the same fight and are trying to end it. Most of the time it works and you can continue to believe that everything is cool until the next time it happens. So most of the time I won't apologize for my wrongdoings and instead will just admit that I was wrong and move forward with things, however there are a few times that even I must apologize for doing something unfair and somewhat cruel. Today I stand before you (well I sit but you get the picture) offering my full and most sincere apology to a man who I have criticized since I was a wee young lad, a man who was the butt end of many of my jokes since I can remember. That man is Jeremy Jacobs, owner of the Boston Bruins hockey franchise. For those of you who aren't familiar with Mr. Jacobs and my hatred for him, I will give you a little detail about him. Jacobs took over the Boston Bruins franchise in 1975 just three years removed from the Stanley Cup Championship and their second in the last three years having also won in 1970. It would be thirty-nine more years before Bruins fans had another taste of the cup. Now I am not saying that the thirty-nine years without the cup is by any means the driving force behind my hatred for the man, but rather the way Jacobs went about those thirty-nine years that drew a lot of well deserved criticism towards his ownership and desire to actually win the championship. Yes the Bruins had their chances under the ownership, they reached the Cup finals in '77, '78, '88, and '90, and looking at this you could make an argument that they were a very competitive team under his reign. The underlying tone though was that Jacobs knew that he had a gold mine franchise in Boston, people would sell out the then Boston Garden night in and night out regardless if the team was winning championships or not as long as they stayed competitive and played "Bruins" style hockey, that is to say the Bruins are the more physical of the teams often muscling their way to victory and scoring a few ugly goals in front of the net. So it came to be that the Bruins would make the playoffs year after year, sometimes accumulating a good regular season record and tricking the fans into thinking that perhaps this is the year they finally get over the hump, only to drop in the first round of the playoffs every time. I still vividly remember the Bruins losing to the Wayne Gretzky-less Edmonton Oilers in 1990 and though that Oilers team was filled with great talent and led by future hall of famers Mark Messier and Jari Kuri, the Bruins looked helpless against them and the scores really indicate just how lopsided the affair was with the Bruins losing 3-2, 7-2, 5-1, and 4-1, losing the championship in five games. It marked the last time the Bruins ever really had a chance to win the cup for the next twenty years. In the subsequent seasons the Bruins would go on to trade Andy Moog, their franchise goaltender, Cam Neely would suffer a career ending injury, and Adam Oates, Rick Toccet, and Bill Ranford would be traded for Jason Allison, Anson Carter, and goaltender Jim Carey (no not the comedian). Now those of you who are Bruins fans will say to me that Jason Allison was great for the Bruins and the Capitals with Oates and the others were really no better than before, and to that I say bully, Jason Allison was nothing for the Capitals and was thought of as nothing when the Bruins received him, the gem of the trade at the time was young stud goaltender Jim Carey who would last the rest of the 1997 season as the Bruins goaltender and was replaced by Byron Dafoe the following season, Adam Oates meanwhile led the Caps to the Stanley Cup Finals the next season. My point in all of that babble was that the Bruins packed in the 1997 season and got nothing for it, yes they were better with the emergence of Jason Allison as a star, but Carey and Carter were both garbage. Carter lasted until the 1999-2000 season when he was once again traded this time for bonafide superstar Bill Guerin, who lasted a grand total of two seasons with the Bruins. The Bruins would continue to flounder making boneheaded trades along the way, the trading of Joe Thornton comes to mind, before finally emerging as an up and coming Eastern Conference powerhouse in 2009. That was nineteen years of bitter and pure hatred as a hockey fan towards the man everyone claimed was responsible for such atrocities to the original six franchise, a team that deserved so much better, and a city that deserved so much better.

Now for the apology part of all of this as I feel I have laid my reasoning for the bitterness out there pretty thoroughly. It has come to my attention in the short few days since the Bruins have won that Jacobs had other, more important, things to attend to during this time of mediocrity. What could possibly be more important than winning the Stanley Cup, you might ask. Well how about the fact that Jacobs was instrumental in the creation of the salary cap in the NHL, without which the league would have folded entirely. He also has been the Chairmen of the NHL Board of Governors since 2007, and prior to that had served on its executive board for many years. Finally, once thought to be a tight wallet when it came to spending to get the players needed to finish the puzzle, Jacobs has consistently been at or above the salary cap since its inception, so since you can no longer blame him for the teams inability to find the 'right' guys. Finally sensing the teams need for a major overhaul Jacobs cleaned house in the front office even parting ways officially with longtime president Harry Sinden, the team has since made the playoffs every season and had been making progress consistently moving further into the playoffs finally culminating in the championship run of this past season. For this Jeremy, mind if I call you Jeremy? I feel that as a fan once turned away from the storied team from the city which I love with all my heart and soul, that I finally owe you a great apology for everything I have said to bash you and your franchise, and I can finally say that I look forward to watching the Bruins for many more years to come.

Punctuation is so overrated

It has recently come to my attention (and by recently I mean since I started this thing) that my punctuation is wrong and that I am using improper place for things like commas, well I am here to say I am sorry for using the proper punctuation if it makes what I write difficult for you to read, and I am making an effort to use the correct punctuation as I type this. Here is the problem though, I am not usually a prose writer. For those who have been familiar with my writing before this ie my friends, family, classmates, etc. you know that I mainly write poetry and dabble into the world of prose for the occasional short story or two. I am terrible at proper usage and grammatical rules, so I live in a world of writing where grammar means shit, and I am allowed to put one word on a line involving hyphens because I thought it added power to the word by adding some sort of empathetical symbol next to it. To me prose has always been too regulated, unless you are someone who transcends writing and who has a story so powerful that you have risen above the common rules of writing, all of your words become nothing but rambling and constant babbling without the ability to use correct punctuation. It's funny how something so simple can change an entire bit of literature, without that simple comma you wouldn't know when to pause or breathe while reading this and the flow of the entire post could be thrown off because of just one long run on sentence. Now I am not here to preach about the importance of punctuation all that much because like I said I am a free form writer and always have been, I don't like to be hampered or hindered by the rules of grammar and punctuation, and I don't always like to start my sentences with capital letters because I am just too fucking cool for that, however like I said in this instance where I am trying to speak to you I think it is important to address things that I do wrong. So I guess this post isn't so much about punctuation as it is about the overall blog, this is me the high and mighty writer, the king of the proverbial castle, reaching out to you the audience member asking what I can do to make the blog more enjoyable for you. Now that I have been through a few weeks of updating on the regular (sorry for not having a set update schedule, mine fluctuates too much for me to promise any writings on certain days), I would like some feedback. What topics did you like, which didn't you like, what can I talk about in the future, and what can I change about this to make it most enjoyable? Please leave me suggestions either here, or facebook, or email me at Nianth@gmail.com and let me know. Thank you once again for reading and I hope you continue to do so

Alpha Complex

Konichiwa bitches and welcome to yet another installment of this, the greatest blog ever written. Ok maybe the greatest one ever written is a bit of a stretch, for now, but I feel totally confident that as the blog grows and the masses of readers continue to swell I will reign supreme and step one will be completed on my quest for world domination. As ridiculous as that last sentence was it is a perfect segue into today's topic, alpha complex. Alpha complex is a term that comes from a males need to become the leader of the pack or herd or flock or whatever it is that they might be leading. Much like the Highlander there can be only one, and so it is that the current alpha will be challenged by the many betas for dominance. Savage as it seems everyone knows that this superiority instinct manifests itself in humanity constantly, whether it be in the historical feudal system or just in your small group of friends, someone is always at the top and is constantly battling to stay there. Typically this person is either a total dick constantly putting those around him down in one subtle or not so subtle way or another, sometimes even resorting to violence to showcase himself as 'king.' Now from that description you are probably saying to yourself that there is no way you would hang out with that guy and you can't imagine him having any friends, but take a closer look at your friends and I can promise that in almost every group there is someone you might take more abuse from than anyone else, or perhaps there is a person who can demand a favor of you knowing that you will do it at the drop of a hat. Think about who you typically call to see if anyone is around for a night, that person nine out of ten times is that guy; you give him extra leeway because maybe he has the nicest place to hang out, or has a car to get you from point a to point b, or perhaps you are genuinely scared of him due to a physical size differential any way you cut it there is always that someone. Still not sure who the alpha is? Maybe it's you, or maybe you know who it is and just don't want to admit it, or perhaps I am totally wrong and there isn't a clear cut alpha in your group, but I doubt it. Now I am not here proclaiming that a bit of alpha is a bad thing, we can't fight our primal instinct to lead rather than to follow, and in some ways we are each our own alphas. If you remove the group aspect of things, think about the general way you think of yourself, are you learned? do you have a job? Do you consider yourself a great driver perhaps modifying your car to be louder ensuring that people will look as they see you cruise by, and they damn well will look because you are the fucking man. See what I did right there?You have just admitted in one way or another that you are the same alpha asshole you said you didn't hang out with just a few moments ago. But don't fret embrace your inner alpha, you're damn right you are king of your own domain, think anyone ever got anywhere choosing to follow instead of lead, fuck no, they got there pushing, shoving and clawing their way to the top. Now again I am not saying go out there and fight your friends and declare yourself the new leader, but don't be so quick to just take the same old shit from your now clearly defined alpha friend, let him know that perhaps his place as king among peers isn't as safe as he may have thought.

Sleep No More

Good afternoon to my selected few, you are once again the lucky ones who have wisely chosen to read this blog. I have just returned from my latest and greatest trip to the great city of New York where I attended a fantastic theatrical piece titled Sleep No More. Now if you live in Boston and have heard of it before that's because it played in Brookline last year and had I really known more about it you can be sure I would have gone to that one too. Now onto the description.
Sleep No More is British theater troupe's totally fucked up rendition of Shakespeare's Macbeth although if you weren't aware going in you would have no way of knowing this, hell I knew this headed in and still couldn't put any correlation between the two. The warehouse that was converted into the McKittrick Hotel for such an event was enormous, I along with my beautiful counterpart for the evening spent three hours exploring the top two of three floors without ever making it to the third floor, I say the third floor instead of the first or even the second you see because even though the show is housed within three floors the wonderment of the event starts right when you walk through the doors. Once inside you are greeted by the hotel concierge who checks the reservation before handing you a simple playing card, this card is to be your ticket for what is to come next. Once the formalities of purchase are finished you are whisked up to the second floor passing suites of armor along the way perfectly transforming your time frame from the new millennium into the swinging jazz age of the nineteen-twenties or perhaps early thirties. Crossing and weaving through almost pitch dark hallways you are lead behind a large draped doorway showcasing the bar complete with three piece jazz band although that description is to come later for now we will still to the show and the bar will come after, for now all I will explain is that the tour guide if you wish to call him that calls out cards and you are allowed inside as he calls them, lucky me to be carrying a joker what he called 'wild' although why I never found out perhaps I could have hopped into any group or something of that nature, it did not allow me to drink for free however. Anyways I have strayed from the plot for long enough and I know you must be quivering with anticipation of the show at this point perhaps feeling a bit moist just thinking about the age of gangsters and flappers and jazz swing. Makes me long for an extended cigarette holder and a snappy suit just thinking about it, oh sorry still straying back to the description!

Once your card has been called you are handed a white mask covering your whole face and distorting your mouth into some kind of duck bill making any kind of under mask kissing impossible as I realized at once. Stopping on the fourth floor you are encouraged to find your own route through the hotel as there is no set path and the experience is unique to everyone. Naturally I wanted to see everything and decided the best path was to start at the top and work my way down. Once we had stepped onto the floor, my companion and I, we were at once thrown into the inner workings of a mental hospital room filled with beds all empty save for one which had been filled with potatoes disguised to look like a sleeping patient. The creepy room would have been enough for me but the amazing thing about this show isn't just the scenery or the cast of characters or even the uniqueness of it all but rather the gross attention to detail inside the show, you are allowed and encouraged to touch everything, go through every drawer in every bedside table and desk, open every display and read all of the different bottle labels as well as the multiple page patient charts discussing the deterioration of each missing patient. Naturally I did just that trying to find some hidden clue about something that would make my experience just that much more special, something only I would find out, some kind of clue that would allow me to be ahead of everyone, but alas all I did was thoroughly confuse myself trying to read each booklet and page of every open book which had most likely already been thumbed through by some other playgoer and had obviously not been left on it initial page. Wandering some more we began to really notice the silence of it all as the only noises being made are the sounds of feet and the soft but eerie music playing throughout the whole show, small waves of anxiety and anticipation began to build inside of me as I made my way from one room to the next, finding a room of bath tubs and testing the warmth of the water in the one tub containing any. Still further into the floor we suddenly found ourselves outside, although not really, more like a hedge labyrinth during winter when all of the shrubs were bare. Weaving our way through a group of people had gathered at what had initially seemed to be a small circular shed, everyone was peeping through the holes in the wood trying to see what was inside, having to see the inside I did the same but failed to notice what everyone was looking at, pulling away in a bit of disappointment I suddenly realized why I had seen nothing as the grim nurse who was just inside was now outside inviting one of the audience to join her. Once the door had closed behind them we continued on our path wanting to see everything else and make our way downstairs. Not before finding the operating room though, with its stage around the one table and its handwritten chalk messages covering every inch of the room, spooky shit there as the creepy nurse walked in and began itemizing the tools and writing new things on the wall. As she left so did we down to the third floor, an entire shop corner of a town complete with an apothecary, a taxidermy, a tailor, a candy shop (filled with real edible candy nonetheless), and lets not forget the ever important bar room. It was in this bar room that we spent the majority of our time as the actors seemed to be coming in and out of it quite constantly and the bartender was always up to something, whether it was dancing on the pool table with a female actress or apparently poisoning a lowly male. At one point he even stormed into another shop grabbed a dead bird, a bone, and a small messae and attacked the taxidermist all over some apparent woman which I gathered from the note which simply said "We have her." Once the bar seemed to clear out we were the only people left save for one last masked soul, the bartender called up my companion and invited her to a drink with him, but not before following every path on her hand searching for something invisible to me. Soon we were lost though in the town center watching two characters, the apparently poisoned male and some new bald woman in a dress (who frightened off our friend the bartender) dancing some erotic love dance of apparent evil. As their dance continued into the streets we followed only to find a second woman waiting for them and the trio led us into a larger bar room where the large crowd had gathered following each of these characters here, even our old friend the barkeep was there if only for a moment as he skipped out before the next bit. Suddenly the music turned from calm and eerie to straight up Rammstein pulsing strobes exploded all over and a naked man with a goat head appeared standing on top of a table blood pouring all over him. The three dancing souls went into a fit as blood was smeared all over each and every one of them and the two women both lost the tops of their dresses for no apparent reason, oh except for the bloodied baby that was now being shared between both of them and breastfed! As the dancing continued for another minute or so it stopped as quickly as it began and all of the characters were gone save for one lone female still naked and writhing over the bar, until finally a totally new character came to her, comforted her and redressed the poor girl, still covered in blood.

It was right around this point where my female friend had to leave and we made our way back down to the bar where we were greeted by a small jazz trio singing "It Don't Mean a Thing" by Duke Ellington. The singer with her beautiful voice was joking to us that her drummer a lanky Asian man was very single and some girl should take him home. Soon we were joined by the actors leading other masked goers into the bar before unmasking them, the apparent selected souls. Once the band finished their set it was onto the DJ music while the bar remained open serving specialty gin and tonics and other drinks of the era, mmm mmm good.

So Sleep No More was everything I wanted it to be and more than that as I have already begun plans to see it again, and this time I will be following a totally new dialogue, it is truly a unique experience for those who aren't weak of heart, but be warned this show is NOT for everyone. You will panic at points and you will see some totally fucked up shit, what I have described to you is just a small portion of the whole experience. I have linked the New York Time Review as well for those who wish to do more reading on the subject, and if you think it is something you may want to see I would book tickets now as it is only running until September and most of the showings are already sold out.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/20/theater/sleep-no-more-from-punchdrunk-transforms-chelsea-warehouses.html?_r=1&adxnnl=1&adxnnlx=1307991199-PNPdg7jVs5Ha47XhbNCVbg

Ta-ta for now back tomorrow with another exciting topic

Generational Respect

Today is an interesting day my reader companions, I awoke this morning with a subject in mind to write about now I had been thinking a lot on the subject over the past couple of days and had even begun to write it in my head as I normally do before finally putting pen to paper or in this case fingers to keyboard. Planning is all well and good and I assure you that the topic would have been great, however within my first three hours at work this early morning another subject has pushed the first subject so far out of mind that I can't possibly justify writing about it today. The new subject my friends is respect or lack there of it. The topic jumped to mind after I was thoroughly tongue lashed for 'failing' to comply with the current job site's over the top safety standards. Normally I am not one to complain about sites and their safety requirements as I understand it costs them less insurance money to require proper PPE (personal protective equipment) and this is no different, the safety standards are in place for a reason and I totally understand and respect that, but I cannot and will not stand for verbal abuse from anyone because of it.
The violation I mentioned came as follows, I was wiring in my small obscenely hot metal box and came to a corner where in front of me was a series of copper pipes no more than six inches from my face and a large exhaust fan roughly a foot to a foot and a half behind me giving my a two foot space to work above me. Having multiple places to work in within the confines of this space I reserved myself to finding the most comfortable position to work in and sat on top of my six foot ladder, now I know sitting on top of a ladder is not a safe practice but knowing there was zero possible chance of my falling from my ladder or the ladder slipping from under me unless someone intentionally kicked the base out from under me, so I sat on top of my ladder. Halfway through my work I was called off my ladder by my foreman who proceeded to verbally tongue-lash me the about the safety practices, me being kicked off the job, and black marks against the company if i was asked to leave the job. Fair enough on the last point, but what he failed to note or comprehend was the fact that had someone come into my zone, seen me, and had an issue with my choice of work procedure I would have been asked to move from the top step and would have received at worst a verbal warning about ladder safety. Did this warrant a grown man screaming at me? I tend not to think so. Does it then show a large double standard when I climbed a second ladder not twenty minutes later in order to bring the same foreman (I was going to protect his identity but we will call him Jimmy from now on) some stock only to find him on top of the metal box twenty feet in the air without any fall protection on, which he not only had readily available but took off once settled in his work zone?

You may ask how this shows a generational gap in respect, well my friends when I approached him about his safety violation I was once again tongue-lashed and told to worry about my own work before questioning his. Enraged by the response I was given I hopped off the ladder and returned to my work, once I was finished telling him to go fuck himself of course. Now I want to note that Jimmy is in his mid-forties and has never acted this way to anyone else in the company, but perhaps since I am twenty years his junior and the only apprentice in the company he feels it is quite alright to ask like a total ass. Well I am here to say respect is earned not just given because you are old Jimmy. You want my respect? Stop acting like the king of Cock Mountain when someone makes a mistake or is doing something you don't want them to do. A polite request would have worked just fine, and for fucks sake it is 7:30 in the morning do you really need to be yelling and screaming at that hour? This isolated incident I am totally passed and over and for those of you who know me know that I don't give enough of a fuck to really care about him yelling and making himself look like an ass, but what I don't understand is the need for older 'adults' to not only say when someone younger is doing something wrong but also to verbally berate the kid. That shit needs to stop I don't care who you are what war you fought in or almost fought in or how long you have been doing this shit, show some class and respect for everyone you work with not just those you consider your generational equal.

The BJ Upton Syndrom

For those of you lucky enough to know me by now, and by 'the lucky' I mean you the few who were already friends with me before I first posted one day ago, you would know that I am a huge sports fan, though not the best native sports fan. Yes it's true I bleed Canadien Red and White over Boston Black and Gold and Soldiers Field is as much if not more of a hallowed ground for me than Gillette Stadium, but say what you will about my lack of home town enthusiasm you cannot deny me my place among sports fans. that is why today we will be talking about a topic that has nothing and everything to do with sports, and every sport real or fake, new or old, popular or just downright confusing, that topic my friends is potential.

Potential - possible, as opposed to actual.

Simple enough right? Most of us never reach full potential and therefore find ourselves longing for more, striving to become something we haven't yet reached. Well perhaps not most, many of us are content with the mediocre never wanting to ripple the waters and just coasting through in ignorant bliss until finally you wake up on your death bed and it's too late, life has already passed you by. You my friends have fallen into the trap of wasted potential, you have become BJ Upton.

I have come up with a theory about wasted potential and have decided to title it after perhaps the most physically talented player in all of baseball because I think he is the most relevant comparison I could possibly make when describing just how much one can fall into the false security of mediocrity. BJ Upton: post season hero, second overall pick, all-star, perennial gold glove contender, not bad right? Upton could retire tomorrow and have no one speak ill about his career as a ball player, but hidden in those credentials are his underlying stats, a batting average that has been consistently under .250 (that's 25% for you non baseball fans out there) three of his first four years in the league, a rapidly climbing strikeout rate every season that has seen a rise from 134 as a rookie to 164 last season, and an age that just never goes down only up. Sure BJ has been good but he hasn't been great, yet year after year we expect him to finally fill that potential and become Ken Griffey Jr. or Barry Bonds pre-steroids, and every year we are disappointed to find him hitting a robust .228. BJ Upton is now twenty-six years old and entering the prime of his career yet his numbers aren't even stagnating they are retreating, just like me (Yes this whole this was really just another way for me to suck you into reading about me, tricked you fuckers).

Until recently I like so many had been fine living as failed potential, thinking I would never amount to what I wanted and instead finding the comfort of the almighty dollar instead of taking a risk. I am here today preaching to you hoping that at least one of you will take my advice and go out onto that ledge and jump, take the chance of falling, what if you can fly? What if instead of the worst case scenario instead you think of the best case and shoot for that? And for those of you scared to do it alone come join me on the ledge and together we will leap and hope that before we hit the ground and leave our lasting impression on the sidewalk and streets, we will sprout wings and fly to the heavens and place ourselves in our rightful place among the dreamers among those who leaped before us and made it. the world doesn't progress in mediocrity the world progresses on failure and a dream. And that dream is not BJ Upton.

The actual beginning of the blogosphere

This blog which I have had for almost two years has remained empty mainly because I am too lazy to really write anything of consequence that I thought you the reader might want to read. Well today is a new day, a day of progress, a day of insightfulness, a day of well really nothing but the same old mundane bullshit that has been life for the past twenty four years. Today just happens to be the day that I finally decided to write something electronically.

Still an electrician, yes four years after falling into the pit of labor and construction I have managed to somehow eek by meeting the minimum standards for what constitutes a licensed electrician. Most non-union electricians would be studying for their licensing test right about now but here in Local 103 we push the envelope and really strive for excellence, so onto year five of the apprenticeship just one more year and then finally I will be able to stand on stage when my name is called and allow my parents to feel the joy of having me graduate from something meaningful, oh wait no they get to watch me accept an empty piece of paper and quickly proceed to drop this bad habit and adopt another; a triumphant return to the land of academia once again pursuing the creative writing degree that will most likely land me in either the land of poor high school teachers or worse, back in the construction field but this time with a college degree. You might ask why, if I am so negative about my chances of becoming a writer, would I even bother returning at all my answer is simple, because I denied myself a real chance to dream to strive to become the potential that I had been told I possessed. I want to dream once again of becoming miserable, drunk, and full of mischievous thoughts that you the reader will devour grasping and clinging to my every word like a baby being yanked from his or her mothers tit. The dream of living fast and dying young, probably becoming much more famous once I am dead and barely scraping by until then, the life of the long lost beatnik, but this time not turning into a god damn hipster wannabe who dreams of nothing more than tattoos and flannel. For once I want to be the overachiever who tells everyone to join the party else fuck off, in essence I wish to be me only with a book deal and deadlines that I will never meet.

Am I original? Nope. Am I the first to dream of this? No. Do I share most of my idealisms with Charles Bukowski? Fuck yeah, but I am cool with that everyone wants to be the next big thing the next someone who defines their generation. I am not saying I will be that someone but I am saying I want to try, this is the first time I can confidently and fully say that without any doubts without second thoughts about what my finances will look like, it is time to throw caution to the wind and grow up later. Am I a bit egotistical? Well yeah, but you know what? You are too, and you should be, everyone needs to strive to be better than everyone else, we need to strive for our dreams for without the dreamers we wouldn't have anything, without those who took the shot we would be grey. I hope everyone feels this way about themselves, and if they don't well then I feel just sorry enough to look at them as I stride triumphantly by and nod my head in acknowledgment.