While I've had wonderful relationships in the past, I am not what one would refer to as a "ladies man". I'm absolutely horrible at meeting women. I have no self confidence when it comes to my appearance, and as we all know regardless of one's character or charisma, it is the eye that generates initial attraction. One evening I was out with Dave, who has what we refer to as "game". There were a few ladies at a table near by who had gained our interest. Dave and I had a few beers, occasionally looking over at the young women, but did not make any moves. While I had stepped away to visit the restroom, Dave had begun a conversation with the girls, and when I returned, they were all sitting at our table. Of course Dave was charming and funny, and the girls seemed to be having a good time. After the initial small talk had worked it's way around the table, one of the girls said to me "We were checking you guys out all night. We wanted to come over and talk to you both, but we were afraid of you." Afraid of me?? That seems to be the consensus. I offer all this as a prelude so that you understand what comes next is honest and free of ego.
Friday evening I was out with a couple of friends of mine at a bar in Jersey City. We had found our way to this particular pub so that we could watch Evander Hollyfield make his best effort at a comeback. There was a rather attractive looking woman who caught my eye. From time to time I glanced over and it looked to me as if she was actually checking me out. Of course, having no confidence, I figured she was just interested in whatever was behind me. After a while my companions began to notice her as well. They both felt that she was indeed looking at me, and with some interest. After a while, it was fairly obvious. But I have no game, and so the evening ended without any sort of connection being made. Tonight, as I sat by myself, enjoying a meal and some football, I again noticed that I caught the eye of a woman at the bar. Again, we never even as much as said hello. I understand my own shortcomings, but to my female friends I pose this question; What the hell??? We are living in the 21st century now. Is it still unacceptable for a woman to make a move? I have a couple of female friends who during discussions of courting, sound as if they are living in the 1950's (you know who you are KP and CG). The feel it is totally incumbent upon the man to make any sort of move. They refuse to be the first to flirt, or to approach a stranger and introduce themselves. And these are incredibly beautiful, smart, and otherwise strong women. In every other part of their lives they take control, but when it comes to meeting men, they remain subservient. Sure, I should work on my game. I should grab the bull by the horns. I should get off my ass and make a move. But, I'm still perplexed by this dichotomy of the female character. Anyone have an explanation? Heather? Jody? Helen? Kaycee? Anyone????
Sunday, August 20, 2006
The boat goes up, the boat goes down.
No cancer news today. Things haven't changed much. Cancer sucks...blah blah blah. I really REALLY don't want to go back to chemo next week. Blah Blah Blah.
Bayonne is a bit of an enigma. It is in the most densely populated county in the country, but because of it's geographical isolation it tries hard to separate itself from the hordes up north. Bayonne makes an effort to stay a small town community in a metropolis that is often considered the 6th borough of Manhattan. While there are two McDonald's, a Burger King and a Wendy's, Bayonne has long resisted the allure of chains. We got our first Dunkin Donuts last year, along with the first ever movie theater. A week ago, Bayonne entered the realm of "Strip Mall New Jersey" with it's very own Houlihan's. A landmark day in Bayonne history.
Sure, my life may seem the stuff of legends, but in reality it is often boring and banal. Today was just a day, like all others. I had nothing planned and nothing special materialized. I was bumming around my apartment, bored and hungry, and decided to head on over to the newest restaurant in town. So, I picked up a Sunday New York Times and drove on over to Houlihan's. So far, based on the facts at hand, nobody would ever derive that I would encounter the most perfect confluence of events that could befall me. I certainly didn't see it coming. I grabbed a seat at the bar, ordered up a Blue Moon and took a look at the menu. No surprises there, after all, it is Houlihan's. The bartender took my order and in short enough time my steak had arrived. I asked if they could put the Jets game on the tv closest to my range of vision and they obliged. The bar was full, the restaurant was hopping, but still, at this point, there was no indication that in a few minutes I would be dead center of an unimaginable set of circumstances. I had breezed through a few sections of the Times and was working my way through the Book Review. A few bites of meat washed down with a fine ale, turn the page, take a look at the score. Seemingly innocuous, correct? I began to read a review of a biography when I sat back and took stock at what had opened before me. The review was about a book entitled The Knight Who Became King Arthur's Chronicler by Christina Hardyment. The book was about Sir Thomas Mallory, who apparently was a bit of a thug, but also produced one of the most wonderful pieces of poetry with his work Morte d' Arthur. (I have a lot of thoughts on this particular issue, but I'll save it for another time) And there it was; the most beautiful combination of my life's interests. Steak, Beer, Footbal, and Mid-Millennium British Epic Poetry! The only way it could have been better is if, somehow, I was having sex at the same moment. There's something to strive for I suppose.
Bayonne is a bit of an enigma. It is in the most densely populated county in the country, but because of it's geographical isolation it tries hard to separate itself from the hordes up north. Bayonne makes an effort to stay a small town community in a metropolis that is often considered the 6th borough of Manhattan. While there are two McDonald's, a Burger King and a Wendy's, Bayonne has long resisted the allure of chains. We got our first Dunkin Donuts last year, along with the first ever movie theater. A week ago, Bayonne entered the realm of "Strip Mall New Jersey" with it's very own Houlihan's. A landmark day in Bayonne history.
Sure, my life may seem the stuff of legends, but in reality it is often boring and banal. Today was just a day, like all others. I had nothing planned and nothing special materialized. I was bumming around my apartment, bored and hungry, and decided to head on over to the newest restaurant in town. So, I picked up a Sunday New York Times and drove on over to Houlihan's. So far, based on the facts at hand, nobody would ever derive that I would encounter the most perfect confluence of events that could befall me. I certainly didn't see it coming. I grabbed a seat at the bar, ordered up a Blue Moon and took a look at the menu. No surprises there, after all, it is Houlihan's. The bartender took my order and in short enough time my steak had arrived. I asked if they could put the Jets game on the tv closest to my range of vision and they obliged. The bar was full, the restaurant was hopping, but still, at this point, there was no indication that in a few minutes I would be dead center of an unimaginable set of circumstances. I had breezed through a few sections of the Times and was working my way through the Book Review. A few bites of meat washed down with a fine ale, turn the page, take a look at the score. Seemingly innocuous, correct? I began to read a review of a biography when I sat back and took stock at what had opened before me. The review was about a book entitled The Knight Who Became King Arthur's Chronicler by Christina Hardyment. The book was about Sir Thomas Mallory, who apparently was a bit of a thug, but also produced one of the most wonderful pieces of poetry with his work Morte d' Arthur. (I have a lot of thoughts on this particular issue, but I'll save it for another time) And there it was; the most beautiful combination of my life's interests. Steak, Beer, Footbal, and Mid-Millennium British Epic Poetry! The only way it could have been better is if, somehow, I was having sex at the same moment. There's something to strive for I suppose.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Red Rover Left XL 7 on three. On three.
My cancer story has not changed much in the last few weeks. I am still going to chemo, and it still is a very unpleasant experience. I think I have three more treatments and then we will do another scan to see how well the drugs are working. There is the possibility of more surgery, but I'm really not interested in going that route. When I was first diagnosed, I believed that surgery was the best course of action. But now, after having gone through two major surgeries, and a few minor ones, I'm not in such a hurry to go through that again. In the mean time, it's just business as usual. I appreciate all of you who check up on me and drop me notes. It really is a big boost to my psyche to hear from you all.
and now for some random thoughts;
"Overwhelming sense of impending doom"
When I first started in the EMS field, EMT school taught me all the basic skills needed to be a good EMT, but my buddy Mike taught me the street skills required to make me a great EMT. One of the first things Mike shared with me , something they don't mention at all in school, is that sometimes people just die. You can do everything that you have been trained to do, but for some people, when it is their time to go, it is simply their time to go. Some people are well aware of it as well. Some patients, when you first encounter them, will look at you and say "I'm going to die". As an EMT, you know that this is going to be a rough call. A patient may experience some pain or discomfort, probably cardiac in nature, but it is the "overwhelming sense of impending doom" that brings them to this conclusion. When a patient is calm and composed and says to you "I'm going to die" without emotion or distress, they are usually right.
In paramedic school they told us about the "overwhelming sense of impending doom". While the term sounds straight forward and obvious, the true sense of it is not. You can parse the words and understand the meaning of the term, but you cannot empathize with the sensation. People try to describe it, but often they simply say "I know what it is, but I can't tell you what what it is. I'm going to die". I know now what they are talking about.
Last week I was out with a friend, taking advantage of life while I can. We were sitting at a bar when a strong feeling seized me, an overwhelming sense of impending doom. I stood there, quiet and still, viewing the scene around me as if filmed through a distorted lens. Time stopped. My brain was overloaded with images and thoughts. I believe I even felt my cancer. The music dulled. I could feel my the whites of my eyes turning grey, tears pushing at the ducts. I was not afraid, or upset, but I could sense my mortality, my place in the world, my beeingness. Eventually it subsided, and thankfully I didn't break out bawling hysterically. I composed myself and went on with the evening. Of course, I didn't think I was going to die, at least not at that moment. It was quite the experience though, and I'm still trying to figure it out.
and now for some random thoughts;
"Overwhelming sense of impending doom"
When I first started in the EMS field, EMT school taught me all the basic skills needed to be a good EMT, but my buddy Mike taught me the street skills required to make me a great EMT. One of the first things Mike shared with me , something they don't mention at all in school, is that sometimes people just die. You can do everything that you have been trained to do, but for some people, when it is their time to go, it is simply their time to go. Some people are well aware of it as well. Some patients, when you first encounter them, will look at you and say "I'm going to die". As an EMT, you know that this is going to be a rough call. A patient may experience some pain or discomfort, probably cardiac in nature, but it is the "overwhelming sense of impending doom" that brings them to this conclusion. When a patient is calm and composed and says to you "I'm going to die" without emotion or distress, they are usually right.
In paramedic school they told us about the "overwhelming sense of impending doom". While the term sounds straight forward and obvious, the true sense of it is not. You can parse the words and understand the meaning of the term, but you cannot empathize with the sensation. People try to describe it, but often they simply say "I know what it is, but I can't tell you what what it is. I'm going to die". I know now what they are talking about.
Last week I was out with a friend, taking advantage of life while I can. We were sitting at a bar when a strong feeling seized me, an overwhelming sense of impending doom. I stood there, quiet and still, viewing the scene around me as if filmed through a distorted lens. Time stopped. My brain was overloaded with images and thoughts. I believe I even felt my cancer. The music dulled. I could feel my the whites of my eyes turning grey, tears pushing at the ducts. I was not afraid, or upset, but I could sense my mortality, my place in the world, my beeingness. Eventually it subsided, and thankfully I didn't break out bawling hysterically. I composed myself and went on with the evening. Of course, I didn't think I was going to die, at least not at that moment. It was quite the experience though, and I'm still trying to figure it out.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Insert non-sequitur here
I've always had a strong fondness for ceremony and tradition. From the ceremonies of the Boy Scouts, to the rituals of Kappa Alpha, to the observances of the Knights of Columbus, I've been involved in many services that have meaning to me. There is a communal beauty in these events that tie together humanity across eons. While I hold the ideology of individuality and personal beliefs as sacred, I also find importance in the commonality of all people; that which makes us human.
One of the hardest parts of dealing with my cancer is that it has taken from me what is most important; me. It has changed me. I struggle every day to maintain my own identity in the face of the overwhelming changes over which I have no control. I now have scars where there were none. I walk with a permanent limp. I will always be at risk. In a very real way, parts of me are missing. My surgeon has spent over twentyfour hours inside my body; we're very close. All of these changes are difficult, but I can overcome them in time. Frustration ensues however when in the midst of trying to regain myself, chemo continually throws walls in my path. Three steps forward, two steps back. Not only does chemo remind me on a regular basis that my life is not my own right now, it smacks me hard with additional challenges. I've described, in glowing detail, the debilitating effects of the drugs, but my descriptions don't truly do it justice. Chemo dips into an already depleted soul and steals what Billyness it can.
In an effort to regain any amount of myself that is possible, I turn to ceremony. When I'm finally able to eat again, I take up a small affectation; I drink from a rocks glass. A rocks glass is a small, squat glass used for "on the rocks" drinks or mixed drinks like an Old Fashioned. I usually start by drinking a lot of water or Gatorade. My taste buds are generally skewed at this point, and cold liquids actually feel strange in my mouth, but water rehydrates me, and eventually helps to clear the uneasy tastes from my palate. As my body recovers more, I like to drink club soda. The carbonation also seems to help realign my taste buds. The night before I'm ready to head back to my own home, I fill my rocks glass with a cold, refreshing beer.
While the liquids help get my body back in gear, there is something about that glass that helps Billy feel like Billy. The heft of the base, the fit of my hand around it, the look of the fluid swirling around the glass all ties me into some regularity of life. At Bethany the crew used to have cocktail parties; ceremonial throw backs to the days when Hemingway and Faulkner would whip them out for the tape measure. We still have them now, saucy little jaunts in Troy's basement. Dave, a master of tradition and ceremony can often be found swirling the brown stuff around clean cubes loaded into a rocks glass. One of my favorite soliloquies from The West Wing tells of the allure of the sound of an ice cube ritually dropped from the perfect height into the glass. The Roman Senate had it's steps, but American society has always grown, developed, and changed on the stools of our taverns. From working in bars in my twenties, to frequenting watering holes in my thirties, the long oak of a pub had always been my choice location for gathering with friends. When the fog of chemo starts to clear, and the drugs just start to loose their edge, I break out those glasses from my father's cupboard and push myself back to myself. One of the strangest parts of this whole scenario for me is that I don't usually drink hard liquor or mixed drinks that would be associated with a rocks glass; I prefer beer, usually from a bottle. It's simply another quirk that has popped up since I got sick. It's a small habit, a bit of silly ceremony, a seemingly insignificant mannerism, but at this point, every little bit helps.
While I have your attention, allow me to share with you one of the many ridiculous items of society that infuriate me. Today you don't need to actually do something to be famous. The masses of mouth breathers have thrust fame upon a certain young blond whose only achievement of note seems to be that she is genetically linked to people who actually used ambition and self determination to create a hotel empire. Now it seems to take even less!! In this month's edition of Playboy is a girl who looks like the aforementioned anomaly. Allow me to repeat that with clarity; she is famous for LOOKING LIKE someone who is famous for no reason at all.
One of the hardest parts of dealing with my cancer is that it has taken from me what is most important; me. It has changed me. I struggle every day to maintain my own identity in the face of the overwhelming changes over which I have no control. I now have scars where there were none. I walk with a permanent limp. I will always be at risk. In a very real way, parts of me are missing. My surgeon has spent over twentyfour hours inside my body; we're very close. All of these changes are difficult, but I can overcome them in time. Frustration ensues however when in the midst of trying to regain myself, chemo continually throws walls in my path. Three steps forward, two steps back. Not only does chemo remind me on a regular basis that my life is not my own right now, it smacks me hard with additional challenges. I've described, in glowing detail, the debilitating effects of the drugs, but my descriptions don't truly do it justice. Chemo dips into an already depleted soul and steals what Billyness it can.
In an effort to regain any amount of myself that is possible, I turn to ceremony. When I'm finally able to eat again, I take up a small affectation; I drink from a rocks glass. A rocks glass is a small, squat glass used for "on the rocks" drinks or mixed drinks like an Old Fashioned. I usually start by drinking a lot of water or Gatorade. My taste buds are generally skewed at this point, and cold liquids actually feel strange in my mouth, but water rehydrates me, and eventually helps to clear the uneasy tastes from my palate. As my body recovers more, I like to drink club soda. The carbonation also seems to help realign my taste buds. The night before I'm ready to head back to my own home, I fill my rocks glass with a cold, refreshing beer.
While the liquids help get my body back in gear, there is something about that glass that helps Billy feel like Billy. The heft of the base, the fit of my hand around it, the look of the fluid swirling around the glass all ties me into some regularity of life. At Bethany the crew used to have cocktail parties; ceremonial throw backs to the days when Hemingway and Faulkner would whip them out for the tape measure. We still have them now, saucy little jaunts in Troy's basement. Dave, a master of tradition and ceremony can often be found swirling the brown stuff around clean cubes loaded into a rocks glass. One of my favorite soliloquies from The West Wing tells of the allure of the sound of an ice cube ritually dropped from the perfect height into the glass. The Roman Senate had it's steps, but American society has always grown, developed, and changed on the stools of our taverns. From working in bars in my twenties, to frequenting watering holes in my thirties, the long oak of a pub had always been my choice location for gathering with friends. When the fog of chemo starts to clear, and the drugs just start to loose their edge, I break out those glasses from my father's cupboard and push myself back to myself. One of the strangest parts of this whole scenario for me is that I don't usually drink hard liquor or mixed drinks that would be associated with a rocks glass; I prefer beer, usually from a bottle. It's simply another quirk that has popped up since I got sick. It's a small habit, a bit of silly ceremony, a seemingly insignificant mannerism, but at this point, every little bit helps.
While I have your attention, allow me to share with you one of the many ridiculous items of society that infuriate me. Today you don't need to actually do something to be famous. The masses of mouth breathers have thrust fame upon a certain young blond whose only achievement of note seems to be that she is genetically linked to people who actually used ambition and self determination to create a hotel empire. Now it seems to take even less!! In this month's edition of Playboy is a girl who looks like the aforementioned anomaly. Allow me to repeat that with clarity; she is famous for LOOKING LIKE someone who is famous for no reason at all.
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