Resurgent

Pirate Radio

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 05:59:34 GMT

It turns out I'm something of a bully. I went to see "Pirate Radio" at the Nickelodeon in Portland, Maine. I sat up back. A man in his mid-twenties down front was yammering away on his cell phone while the trailers were playing, his girlfriend at his side. The rest of the audience and I let that slide – it was just previews. When the movie started he just kept yapping away. Some girl yelled "hang-up!" He unfurled a finger without turning around.

I fixed my t-shirt's sleeves for maximum effect, pumped my arms, and lumbered down. Only the guy on his cell phone and his girlfriend were watching the movie. I loomed out of the darkness and very quietly told him to STFU. He turned to say something stupid, saw my 20" biceps, and hung up quickly. His girlfriend looked terrified, but the audience loved it: little golf-claps all around. Someone voiced "Righteous" as we all got back to watching the movie.

"Pirate Radio" was pretty good. The soundtrack will be awesome. I stayed and watched the credits. People nodded and waved as they passed me, except the guy and his girlfriend. Those two hurried past me without glancing my way. So I'm a bully.

I’d parked at Temple Street Parking next door. I was last in a line of cars paying our fees and exiting. Some guy ran to the attendant's booth. I watched as he and the attendant point right at my pick-up truck. I wondered "What now?"

When I tried to pay my fee the attendant refused my money. His manager - the guy who'd run to the booth - was all smiles. "THAT was awesome!" he exclaimed, adding "I HATE jack-holes like that!"

I've heard tales of people who talk on cell phone during movies, but that was the first time I'd encountered someone stupid enough to do so.

End of an Era

Sun, 29 Nov 2009 10:45:15 GMT

I work at Brunswick Naval Air Station (BNAS), for now.

The base is closing. The last P-3 Orion launches this morning. I’m told my last day will be 31 January 2010, just weeks away. I will be unemployed, and homeless soon too.

The Bush/Cheney Administration tasked the Base Closure and Realignment Commission (BRAC) with shutting down the Continental United State’s most easterly airfield. The Obama/Biden administration has not questioned this decision. The overwhelming majority of my neighbors abhor this absurd decision to close BNAS.

There will be no Maritime Patrol Aircraft (MPA) over the Western Atlantic north of Virginia when VP-26 Trident’s remaining aircraft launches in a few hours. MPA from BNAS have aided in Search And Rescue (SAR) operations for over 60 years, but that was yesterday.

It’s only a matter of time until SAR is needed and we won’t be there fast enough. It will be too late when people will ask "Why?"

What hasn’t been widely disseminated is that Anthony Principi, Chairman of the BRAC, is reported to have overcharged the government six million dollars in his capacity as the Veterans Affairs Secretary, cheating troops wounded in combat from necessary long term care.

I looked across the bar before I came to work and saw Lieutenant Dara Ching of VP-26 with two colleagues. All three were in civilian clothing. I was waiting from my steak tips to be cooked, and lumbered over to say "Good bye." Lieutenant Ching, a dark-haired Asian, is a navigator on P-3 Orion aircraft, and one of my favorite officers. I brief navigators and pilots before most flights. She’s not just pretty, she’s smart, hard-working, and very nice. Judging from her body language, I guessed the light-brown-haired young man on her left was her boyfriend, the dark-brown-haired young man on her right seemed to be an animated, amusing friend. "Lieutenant Ching, how are you?" I interrupted. They were enjoying one last night in Maine. We chatted amiably for a moment, about the base closure of course. I tried to include her friends in the conversation. "You must be VP-26 too?" I asked. They nodded, obviously wondering who I was. Lieutenant Ching introduced them as Intelligence Officers. "I used to be an IS (Intelligence Specialist)" I offered. Both men turned away abruptly, abhorring social contact with unwashed Enlisted, prior or otherwise – Rank Makes Right.

Not aiming to embarrass Lieutenant Ching by calling on the Intelligence Officer’s rude behavior, we bade each other "Fair well" and I returned to my table.

Aircrews combine Officers and Enlisted forged into close teams. They’re comfortable working together. Intelligence Officers don’t necessarily have much experience working with Enlisted. Still, the Rank Make Right mentality is tiresome.

The manager, John Marley, had prepared my steak tips himself, and they looked delicious. He’d been Enlisted once too, many years ago, and served aboard submarines. Deb, the gregarious bartender, and Erika, a bubbly young waitress, fussed over me, which I like. I glanced up to meet the Intelligence Officer’s eyes then turned back to my meal without a shrug; the three Officers left moments later.

Listening

Sun, 12 Jul 2009 04:48:34 GMT

I took a front row seat at Giant Steps to watch the tide surge in this afternoon. A salt and spray sea breeze cooled me as I listened to the slow roar of eternal surf. A dark slate blue and bright aquamarine ocean churned to white foam heaved against the sun-warmed brown and grey granite under a haze blue sky streaked with alto-cirrus.

John Winslow

Thu, 09 Jul 2009 04:20:39 GMT

I’ve just learned my friend John Winslow died of a heart attack. He’s survived by his wife, Lisa, and two daughters, Boo and Sophie. John also had two daughters, Victoria and Gabriel, from a previous marriage. John and Lisa’s infant son, Bennett, died soon after birth. I met John’s brother Miles once, and their parents too. They all seemed very nice.

John and I served together in Boston, along with a crew of miscreants I still talk about (here). I remember John fondly for his cheerful energy and genuine friendship.

Hunger

Sun, 31 May 2009 06:48:05 GMT

She Lied.

I revisited the Nickelodeon in Portland today to watch Hunger, an excellent film portraying the Her Majesty's Maze Prison H-block hunger strike in 1981.

Will, the avuncular cashier, advised me "People have complained of the thick Irish accents in the film" as I paid for my ticket.

"I’ve an Irish Grandmother, I’ll be fine" I assured him.

The accents seemed authentic enough, and not too thick. As I was exiting Will interrupted his conversation with a grey haired lady to ask me "How did you like the film?"

"It’s powerful" I answered, adding "Though it raises questions."

"Like what?" the grey lady wanted to know. She seemed excited.

"Well, why didn’t the IRA (Irish Republican Army) break their own out of prison?"

She seemed confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean attack the prison, as soldiers, and break their own out."

"Oh, they tried, many times, but they all got shot" she lied.

"Really?" I scoffed. Prisons are mostly indefensible.

"You just need to educate yourself" she patronized me. I’ve heard that before: it usually means I have to buy the same brainwash she did. Or validate her superstitions, or her ideology, etc.

"Well, I’ll research that" I shrugged.

"Oh you should" she warbled. Why do idiots always seem to have perfect pitch? Is it the bird brain? "I’m just really glad they showed this film" she added.

She was a baby boomer alright. Why couldn’t the so-called "Greatest Generation" raise children to value honesty? I’m trying to remember the last time I met a Baby Boomer who wasn’t full of nonsense and shit. Are honest Baby Boomers a minority, or is that just my perception playing tricks with me? This woman would sooner destroy her credibility than admit she didn’t know something. I don’t understand that.

For what it’s worth, I did learn IRA prisoners escaped from Maze Prison in 1983, but there’s no record of the IRA ever attacking a prison to free their own.

What's wrong with this woman? Is it the same mental disease that prevents Libertarians from admitting their ridiculous ideology was bullshit hi-jacked by convicted lobbyist Jack Abramoff in his failed attempt to oppose anti-Appartied forces in South Africa back in the 1980's?

You’ve heard it from me before: religion is bullshit. Ideology is bullshit too. You don’t have to eat the bullshit. Put it down. Spit it out. Right now. Yes I mean you. No, I don’t want any, thank you. It causes too much trouble, and it’s quite nasty – I assure you – once you see it as it is.

I realized this woman was Irish-American. I realized she was Roman Catholic. I realized she is an ardent supporter of the IRA. It would not surprise me if she'd made donations to their cause (and thus funded terrorism). I also realized she’d eaten bullshit, and was trying to share a turd with me.

Yuck, no.

Jimmy 1964-2009

Sun, 03 May 2009 08:48:20 GMT

My step-brother Jimmy died Thursday morning. He had a brain tumor. He was 44.

Jimmy died on his step-daughter Melissa’s birthday, not long after finally marrying Sandra.

Jimmy was obstinate, opinionated, and reckless. At times I questioned his judgment. I never questioned Jimmy’s passionate loyalty to those he cared about. Jimmy’s love transcended barriers we think are real.

There is a portrait of Jimmy holding his daughter Jessica (see photo) as a baby. It hung in our parent’s house. Jimmy loved that portrait, often expressing his delight in how the artist captured the difficult qualities of light. What I saw in that portrait was the love of a father for his daughter.

Jimmy was athletic, and sometimes competitive to a fault. Volleyball games against his brother Frank always seemed to get boisterous. Jimmy drove too fast. One time, on the highway, a car flew past our parent’s car. His mother, Carmella, said to my dad "Look at that asshole."

Dad responded "Honey, that asshole is your son."

Sometimes I’d swear he would say things just to get his sisters Debbie, Dianne, and Susie riled.

The last time I really spoke with Jimmy we didn’t say much at all. My dad laid dying in an ICU bed between us. Jimmy looked over at me with his amber-brown eyes and asked "What can I say?"

I think words fail at death.

What can I say?

I can say I haven’t been around much lately, and that weighs on me. I can say I’m glad Jimmy reached out on FaceBook. I can say Jimmy always treated me kindness and warmth, even when I got confused and let a strange dog eat his Frisbee, and I will miss him.

I’m not alone in that. Jimmy loved and was loved by an extended circle of family and friends.

Sisyphus II

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 22:15:23 GMT

I was Sisyphus again.

I prefer traveling byways. I was returning from Portland this afternoon via Route 88 through Falmouth Foreside. A disabled SUV blocked the north-bound lane as traffic slowed to a stop behind it. The driver's slender arm waved drivers past, motioning us into the south-bound lane with it's south-bound traffic. Eventually I past, and pulled over to help, my proletarian pick-up truck out of place on a bourgeoisie roadside.

The SUV's driver was a frazzled mom with two children in the back. "What's wrong?" I asked gently.

"My battery died! Can you push me out of traffic?"

"Aye."

"Should I get out?"

"You should steer."

"Should my children get out?"

I've limbs that weigh more than her oldest, a pretty girl with long, dark hair.

I thought the fewer people in the road the better. "I don't think their weight will matter - you're in Neutral, right?"

"Right."

It only took me a moment to push her onto the shoulder, clearing the roadway. Traffic moved past us: many watched, no one helped.

I asked the driver "Have you called anyone?"

"My husband - and I'm about to call AAA."

"No worried then. I hope your day gets better!"

I likely could have fixed her battery - frost heaves make rough roads that shake connections loose - and I've a few simple tools in my truck - but I thought I'd let her husband play the hero. No doubt he was already swooping in to the rescue. I could hear a siren approaching in the distance too - someone had called the cops!

I don't expect everyone to stop and help. Not everyone can push a car. I know not everyone carries a cell phone - I don't (and maybe I should get one). I can't shake the feeling however that people don't help because they've been made to feel helpless.

We live in a culture were others make a fortune by convincing you you're inadequate unless you buy their product. Buy WonderBiscuits, and your family will be happy to sit down to a heart-warming meal. Buy SuperSoap and your family will be clean and disease free. Buy NewGizmo and help your goofy Dad be less dysfunctional. If you don't own a PenisGun you're defenseless - bad men will invade your home and hurt your women and children. Your pet will love you if you buy PetChow. You have an inadequate penis condition we can treat with YellowPill, see your Doctor as some side-effect may apply. It's freaking endless.

WE ARE NOT HELPLESS.

Lend a shoulder if you can. Make a call, shout encouragement, wait your turn, direct traffic, or even just slow down a little should you see someone pushing a disabled vehicle.

Jack's Boxing Class

Fri, 24 Apr 2009 22:42:41 GMT

Jack's Boxing Class
By Seamus M. McCarthy, Times Record Staff
22 April 2009

Bath - Almost 80, Jack's days in the boxing ring are long gone. All that's left are memories, and the lessons learned when those memories were earned the hard way.

Jack's ready
He waits for us.

He teaches a "cardiovascular boxing" class at the Bath Area Family YMCA a few months each year. It meets on Saturday mornings. For Jack, it's a chance to pass on his love of boxing to a new generation.

"I feel like I have something to impart," he says. "So that when I'm gone, others will be able to carry on."

Judging from how quickly the class fills up each year, it's clear that in Bath, if nowhere else, there's something of a boxing revival happening under Jack's watchful eye.

"It took me a long time to convince them to have boxing here at the 'Y,'" Jack says. "That's why we call it 'cardio-boxing.' It's a good way to get some exercise."

Jack was introduced to boxing at age 12 or so. He was a kid growing up in the greater Boston area in a neighborhood without a playground or organized sports. A time when kids organized their own fun and games on vacant lots or in the streets.

"One way or another I got involved in the Catholic Youth Organization," he recalls. "They used to encourage boxing. They'd give us the old-time 'Mickey Mouse' boxing gloves - they had so much padding they were big enough to smother someone with - and let us go at it."

Jack says his CYO training in boxing was supplemented by his mother's brother, his Uncle Ralph, a "hellion" who looked like the tough guy actor Wallace Beery. Ralph would go down to the local store, talking up his nephew "the boxer" and unbeknownst to Jack, line up local toughs for his nephew to box.

"Jack, I know you can take 'em," Jack remembers his uncle telling him. He learned later that his uncle was placing bets on him to win those arranged neighborhood matches.

Such was his early apprenticeship in boxing...which was closer to the street-fighting variety than the more formalized Marquis of Queensbury style he teaches in his weekly class at the Bath YMCA.

The formal training came later, courtesy of the Army at the time of the Korean War, when Jack was a physical education instructor at Fort Bragg. Every week, there'd be "a card," a lineup of boxing matches pitting Army recruits in various weight classes against each other for entertainment and the bragging rights that would last at least a week if they'd won their match.

Although there was a prohibition against professional boxers in those matches, Jack recalls that it was never strictly enforced: The draft tapped men from every background imaginable to serve their country, including professional boxers, who obviously were drawn to the weekly matches in the boxing ring.

"They'd try to get into those matinees," Jack says, noting that more often than not they'd succeed. "You learned fast."

Boxing under the ring name of "Jackie Perry," Jack gained experience in all aspects of the sport, alternating weeks as a manager and timekeeper for the matches.

His favorite professional boxer was - and still is - Rocky Marciano, the Brockton, Massachusetts, heavyweight who held the boxing title for four years in the 1950s, and is the only boxing champion to ever retire undefeated.

"He was a Palooka," Jack says. "What they call a 'Palooka' is a boxer who keeps coming at you, coming at you. I was a 'Palooka' too. Rocky Marciano was flat-footed, he had no rhythm, but he knew how to punch. It's too bad his plane crashed (in Iowa in 1969). He was quite a guy."

As for his own boxing career under the ring name Jackie Perry, Jack admits he was not quite the caliber of his hero.

"I did 33 fights," he says. "I tell people I lost every one...But I held my own. At that point in my life, it was my daily thing. I enjoyed it. When I got married, that was one of the things I gave up."

After getting out of the Army, Jack raised a family, worked a variety of jobs, saw professional boxing's reputation steadily decline and the neighborhood boxing clubs, frequently run by local CYOs or YMCAs, slowly disappear.

But the boxing bug never really left him. In his retirement years, he decided to stage a revival and the Bath Area Family YMCA gave its blessing to a weekly "cardio-boxing" class...with "cardio" being the operative word.

In other words, boxing as exercise, not as a martial art.

And yet, as students in Jack's class uniformly attest, it's more than that. There's a viewpoint, an ethic rooted in simpler times: A working class, democratic understanding of boxing as a sport in which social divisions based on class and wealth disappear inside the ring. A sport in which "David" often does beat "Goliath." A sport in which the intangibles of "heart" and "will" can overcome superior talent or strength.

That's the kind of class Jack teaches. That's what keeps many of his students coming back for more.

Mitt Work
Linda & Warren do mitt work under Jack's watchful eye.

Part I

Bobbing and weaving to Glenn Miller & His Orchestra at the Bath Area Family YMCA
By Seamus M. McCarthy, Times Record Staff
23 April 2009

Bath - It's a few minutes after 0800, a time on Saturday morning when many are just finishing breakfast, and Jack's students, their hands wrapped in tape, are in a conga line, bobbing and weaving their way through a maze of punching bags, rubber torso dummies, ropes strung across the workout room.

Bob and jab. Sidestep. Jab, jab. Shuffle forward. Bob. A flurry of punches. Sidestep and shuffle. One by one, the boxers make their moves, loosen up, and build a sweat - all to the tune of "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree With Anybody Else But Me." It's the Glenn Miller and his Orchestra version, circa February 1942, recorded just a few months after Pearl Harbour:

Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me
Anyone else but me, anyone else but me, no, no, no
Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me
'Til I come marchin' home.

It seems an odd piece of music to be practicing boxing moves to, but Jack, who is a month shy of turning 80, has a ready explanation.

"I put on the music that I trained to," he says, explaining that the distinctly 1940s and 1950s soundtrack teaches his students the rhythm of boxing, the essential skill of not being flat-footed in the ring (comment: we listen to Benny Goodman too).

For the next two-and-a-half hours, Jack is at the hub of all the activity taking place inside the workout room. Sometimes standing, sometimes sitting, he watches closely as students punch body bags and rubber dummies or engage in three-minute sparring matches, in which the student designated as the "boxer" throws punches at padded mitts or padded body vests, under the direction of the sparring partner who calls out where the next punch is to land, or whether a simulated punch is about to come at the boxer.

"Don't open up your wings," Jack calls out. "You keep your guard up! Slide 'em up...always keep 'em up, because some day, if you don't, you'll get creamed and you'll find your nose in the back of your head."

His commentary is supplemented by shouts of encouragement from the students themselves.

"Strike out, Al! Strike out. He may be a big dog, but you're no pound puppy!"

Jack calls out to one student, who had just landed a nice flurry of body punches to the padded rib cage of his opponent, "Hit 'em in the 'xylophone' (comment: ribs)! It takes the wind right out of him. You want to do that before they go back to the corner. That way they'll sit in that corner, out of breath, and not want to come back into the ring. It always worked for me."

One student, a slender woman in her early 30s named Sita, puts on her pink gloves and steps into the sparring space. Light on her feet, she wastes no time in jabbing the padded mitts held out by her partner, who calls out where her next punch is to land.

"There's my 'Million Dollar Baby,' right there," Jack says aloud.

Then he calls out to Sita, "Keep your guard up. Keep your guard up! Good boy...I mean, good girl!"

Jack points out how well Sita bobs and weaves as she throws her punches. She's focused and quick on her feet and seemingly possessed of limitless stamina, with a punch count double that of some of the other boxers in the class.

"If I had her as a student 20 years ago, I'd have opened my own gym," he says. "I would have had my 'Million Dollar Baby.'"

Watching the next three-minute sparring round, Jack calls out another reminder about keeping one's guard up: "When your ears come around and meet your nose, you'll know you got hit."

"Just like Picasso," quipped one student (comment: me!).

Sitting in the middle of the workout room, Jack clearly enjoys the easygoing camaraderie that has developed among his students, who've been boxing together since November (comment: I've been with Jack five years; Warren has been with us four years; and most of the others two or three years. We only had four new students this year). They shout out encouragement and observations as much as he does.

"There are good guys here," he says. "Good guys. A lot of talent here. Some good gals, too. I can speak well of every one of them. When they started, they didn't know how to bob or weave or how to throw a punch. They didn't know anything about boxing."

Throughout the workout, Jack calls out bits of boxing wisdom, mixed in with encouragement:

"There's no such thing as an accidental blow in boxing."

"When the towel goes in, everything stops."

"Always keep your gloves clean. Take care of your gloves and they'll last a lifetime."

"Don't say Jack's crazy...Jack's not crazy."

"Good job. Good job."

For much of the two-and-half-hour class, Jack sits in the center of the gym, watching, calling out encouragement. The boxers move around him, sparring, punching body bags, timing the matches, counting punches.

Their instructor doesn't say much, but when he does, everyone listens. It's clear to anyone watching the class, Jack is the hub around which everything else revolves. He's the "old-timer" showing the "kids" how to be respectable inside a ring.

Hello Kitty!
I once teased Sita that I was going to get her "Hello Kitty" boxing gear. She got pink gloves soon after that. Mike, Al, Steve, me, & Jack are in the background.

Part II

It's graduation day and Jack's boxing students reflect on what they've learned
By Seamus M. McCarthy, Times Record Staff
24 April 2009

Bath - It's the final Saturday of his five-month class. Jack is testing his students, calling out questions from a printout of the Marquis du Queensbury rules of boxing. It's a pass-fail test. No one seems worried about failing - except a late arrival, who Jack greets with a gentle verbal jab.

"We're taking the test," he says. "You just failed it."

He wraps up the test and tells the students to get ready for their final workout.

"We're going to do three on three," he says, meaning three minutes of sparring, alternating against three different opponents. "Anyone want to do 'punch counts?'"

There's a good feeling in the workout room. The boxing students joke with each other between rounds, throw jabs at the rubber dummy known as "Bob the Bully" and compare notes about what they've learned in Jack's class (comment: we have two dummies actually, named "Cuff" and "Link").

"It's hard," says Chris, a first-time student, who's competed in wrestling, football and rugby. "It's a lot harder than football. There's a lot of techniques you've got to be thinking about. It's not about strength. It's about technique and speed."

Linda, also a first-time student, is one of two women in the class. An emergency room nurse at Mid Coast Hospital, she admits it took her awhile to build up confidence to sign up for the class.

"I'd see them practicing," she says. "I just came in to check it out and they welcomed me with open arms. I love it."

A self-described "girly girl," Linda says taking Jack's class has helped her realize that boxing is not just a man's sport. It's boosted her confidence, and she finds herself more willing to try things she might have previously seen as "impossible."

"I have a new motto," she says. "I'm a woman. I'm a mother. I'm a wife. I'm a nurse. And I'm a boxer! You don't scare me."

Linda says the diversity of the class is one of its strong points. The boxing students come from a wide range of professions, their abilities ranging from rank novice to serious amateur. She credits Jack with creating an atmosphere in which no one's a star. They're all in it together.

"This class has the potential of getting someone on the road of getting confidence in themselves," she says. "This class can do that for people."

"It's a family," agrees Warren, a coach at Wiscasset High School. "Like Jack always says, 'Everybody watches out for each other.'"

"It's also a really good workout," adds Mike. "I'm not so concerned about speed. I'm concerned about agility."

"It's the camaraderie I enjoy the most," says Sita, who, while doing speed-bag-punching, starts slow and gradually builds to a blur of both fists pummeling the "tear drop" (so-named, says Jack, because many a boxer has cried, unable to master it due to its small size) (comment: the "tear drop" is an extra-small speed bag that moves faster and is harder to hit compared to a regular speed bag).

"She's a $1.5 million baby," another student calls out as Sitat works the tear drop speed bag. "The stock is going up."

"Doing good," Jack tells Sita at the end of her workout. "That was excellent. Excellent."

Lessons learned
As the final class winds down, people linger in a tight hallway. They've already received their diplomas from Jack — a tiny leather boxing glove with his ring name, "Jackie Perry," signed in a silver ink - and it's time to get back to their every-day lives.

But before they do, they line up to share with a reporter what they've gotten out of the boxing class.

"I've been studying martial arts for 20 years," says Leon. "I'm not drawn to young cocky guys, I'm drawn to the old salt-of-the-earth guys. They are not doing it to make a name for themselves. They are doing it because they want to give something back to the community. I admire Jack, I admire what he's done. He's old-school: Good old American values. That, to me, is the reason I was drawn to his class. Everything else is just hard work."

Warren, who's been coaching high school sports since 1992, considers Jack "one of the best, if not the best, inspirational coaches" he's encountered.

"What Jack brings to every situation is compassion and an understanding of what it takes to motivate people," he continues. "He brings out the best in people. No matter what kind of week you had at work, you come into this class and Jack makes you feel special...A measure of greatness is how much you can share your greatness and make other people great. Jack does that. He leads by example."

"Everybody is here to help each other," adds Al.

For stealthdozer, who broke his arm in three places a year ago, the boxing class has helped his rehabilitation greatly. He credits Jack with teaching him how to do the speed bag properly, and now has a 55-minute (heavy) bag routine built around the songs of Sinead O'Connor.

"I don't think about anything," he says. "I find it's an opportunity to put away the daily distractions."

"I like how it's a very traditional class...that the knowledge has been passed on for a long time, that it's an old sport," says Mike.

Compassion, helping each other, truth, making others feel special, tradition, giving back to the community...not a person spoke about being able to deliver a knock-out punch or wanting to test their boxing skills in a local bar.

Jack wasn't around to hear any of these tributes. He had already given everyone a passing grade, so no one had anything to gain by singing his praises. It was heartfelt, truthful, direct - not unlike his teaching style.

A week later, asked what he felt was the most important lesson he had to teach in the weekly boxing class, Jack replies: "I tell my students, 'Don't ever go into a joint braggin' you're a boxer. Someone in that crowd is going to challenge you to a fight, guaranteed. Always be a gentle person. Don't be a bully. You've got to be a good person. You've got to care for people. Most boxers are that way. Most guys who box, you'd never know it.'"

Part III

Tear Drop
An extra-small speed bag that, according to Jack, can make a grown boxer cry with frustration.

Our speed-bag back-board is between 100 and 150 years old. A thick, solid, and well-varnished hardwood, it's worth at least $700 dollars according to Jack. It's priceless to us. Jack rescued it from the basement of Bath's old YMCA before it was thrown away.

When Jack first introduced the tear-drop speed-bag to us we were surprised. He'd already taught us the how to use a regular speed-bag, challenging enough. I pawed at the tear drop tentatively, then announced "This feels wrong - like hitting a baby wrong." It seemed like a baby speed-bag.

Some busy-body half-overheard me and was horrified - she complained to people that I hit babies. My friends set her straight.

We've a dozen regular students this year. One class had 18 people, another time there were just six of us.

In the off-season, and on Tuesday and Thursday nights, it's usually just me pounding away on the heavy bag to Sinead O'Connor.

Leon, Sita, Steve, and Al have martial arts backgrounds. Lately Jon and Warren have been joining them on Wednesday nights.

I'm not against martial arts - obviously - but I do recognize its limitations. Leon is an especially good instructor, and he often tries to help me and the others with our technique.

Leon has a good heart, and he means well. One day I'm going to have to sit down and tell him what I was. A fight is a world of adrenalin, pain, and fear. The minutiae of technique has no place there.

Many martial artists talk about "real" fights, "real" training, and such. They've not been in many real fights though - usually they are like virgins giving sex advice.

Shadowboxing
Jon, Sita, Linda's pants, & Al at the mirror.

Cuff Link I
Jay named our two dummies "Cuff" & "Link." Here Jay cuffs Link, held by Warren. Jon punches a bag in the background, Linda, Sita, & Mike look on.

Cuff Link II
Chris jabs at Cuff, held steady by Steve. Mike, Linda, & Al are in the background.

Dragonslayer
Joel faces Cuff. Mike, Leon, Jon, Al, Seamus, Sita, me, & Jack are in the background.

Bag Work
Leon works the heavy bag held by Chris. Jack, Steve, Linda, Al's foot, Jay, & Mike are in the background.

Before the Internet

Thu, 26 Feb 2009 09:59:58 GMT

TotalFarkette Gadian asked "Describe your pre-internet life" here.

I answered:

Work meant physical work before the internet came, at least for me. Work produced tangible results: a heavy object was moved from one place to another, a structure was built, a unit repaired, or an area cleared. Things that were dirty were made clean. Things that were clean were made dirty (usually me and my clothes).

I conducted research and reading at library, if I needed to. This took a special trip into town.

I'd call friends on a rotary dial telephone. We had a party line back then: four families on one line. Different rings indicated different homes (we were two quick rings). One never knew who was listening.

We'd write letters to relatives. Replies would take a week or two. One time I even wrote a letter to the editor of our local newspaper regarding our High School yearbook, and they published it! All my neighbors said it was an excellent letter. No one flamed or trolled me.

Our television only received five channels - one of them French/Canadian. Late at night that last became quite educational: the Quebec station lacked our represive sexual mores. The other stations were ABC (Channel Six), CBS (Channel Eight), NBC (Channel 13), and PBS (Channel Ten). We received only a few radio stations to listen too. WBLM (the Blimp) was our favorite.

We played outside a lot. We played Army in the woods during summer, or we'd swim, or go exploring on our bikes. We went sledding during winter, usually staying closer to home. We'd play board games indoors: chess, Stratego, Battleship, etc. When I was older my friends and I would play Dungeons & Dragons. Nana taught me to play Rummy. More specifically she taught me to cheat at Rummy.

So, to answer your question: work was different, communication was different, recreation was different, and learning was different. I won't say better, necessarily, but certainly much slower.

Sisyphus I

Tue, 24 Feb 2009 10:02:46 GMT

I pushed a couple of cars today.

Apparently that’s what I do.

It snowed all night. It was still snowing this morning, not quite the snow-pocalypse, but thick enough. The flakes were heavy, thick, and wet.

Chuck, whom I’ve mentioned a time or two, called to say he’d be late in relieving my supervisor, his wife Sue. He’d gotten his SUV stuck in the parking lot.

Our area of the base is haphazardly plowed at the best of times. The base’s scheduled closing next year has blanketed us with a sense of ennui.

Chuck likes to delete my work files, or change the file names. That’s why I make back-ups for everything. Chuck was instrumental in ensuring I was disciplined for challenging the image of Stone Mountain on our briefing folders. Chuck is our worthless Union rep - IBEW Local 567 - the same Union that betrayed me. In nine years we’ve had maybe six required "monthly" meetings. Maybe it’s better that way.

Chuck’s truck was stuck. He asked my help, and I shoved his SUV out of the snow bank he’d crashed into. It was child’s play really. The tricky part was finding something solid enough on his SUV to push – it was mostly plastic!

The other car I pushed out of a snow bank belonged to Kathy, a cook I know from Something’s Fishy, a seafood restaurant by Fort Andross. I’d come in late and hungry one night and Kathy said something too loudly in the kitchen about it. She was chagrined to learn the entire building had heard her. Her apology was sincere, and we’ve been friendly ever since. I had no qualms helping to get her and her abominable snow-car underway. Actually I cleared her car off too. All she had was a bit of coloured plastic as a sad excuse for a snow scraper. I felt like Crocodile Dundee "That’s not a ~~knife~~ snow-scraper" as I fetched a snow rake from my pirate-truck.

At work tonight my supervisor, Sue, Chuck’s wife, is being nice to me, and the files I’ve used have been left be. I suppose this too shall pass.

Benchmark

Sun, 18 Jan 2009 06:48:09 GMT

A new recovering benchmark:

Bench Press: 315lbs.
Body Weight: 252lbs.

My hand is sore.

I put six 45 pound plates on the 45 pound bar and pushed past the 300 pound barrier my mind had constructed. I was going to settle for 275 pounds again. My friend Drew was pumping iron too. I knew I could trust him for a spot if things went wrong. I knew I was bullshitting myself that I couldn’t handle 315, and so I just did it. I found satisfaction in that. A philosophy of fear doesn’t feel right to me.

Juliet runs indoors during the winter, flying over a whirring treadmill. She was delighted with Lars & the Real Girl, a movie I’d recommended to her. I think many of my other friends would enjoy this movie too.

A few of us were talking after boxing class Saturday morning. The subject of juicing – e.g., steroids – came up again. Some time ago a couple of teenagers asked me about "supplements." I told them the supplements that work are illegal, and the supplements that are legal don’t work. Our coach Jack overheard that answer and agreed, saying this was good advice.

The trouble with steroids is they work. I’d be a liar if I said I hadn’t been tempted. I can’t handle ‘roid rage. Given my family’s history of mental instability, the last thing my friends need is me juiced. I’d rather be a big, misunderstood teddy bear (waves to alaria_lyon) than a threat to people I care about.

Braced for Impact

Wed, 07 Jan 2009 07:00:34 GMT

I wonder what, if anything, Ningnong the Elephant felt when he saved a little girl during the great tsunami?

I’ve been a beefy shoulder in a tsunami of drama.

I learned Saturday that Mary, a friend of mine, died Friday night, 02 January 2009, at 2233 (10:33PM), while I was still in Massachusetts. Mary died at work, in John the manager’s arms, not in the hospital as stated in the newspaper.

I know John, and he’s a good man. He’s shaken up.

Mary was fine, puttering around, talking to people, then suddenly keeled over behind the bar. She was 34 years old, with a husband and a five years old son, Jimmy, at home. Tiffany and Melissa where there too, and are still freaked out. The autopsy was inconclusive: Mary did not suffer an aneurysm, heart attack, or stroke.

Mary had a lot of friends, many of us also friends with Becky, whom we lost last year. Becky, whose job Mary took, was only 36 when she died.

I listened to Joe, the surviving bartender, mostly because he needed someone to hear him talk. Joe’s wife left him last summer for some jackass. Joe rebuilt his life without her, the jackass dumped Joe’s ex, and now she wants back. Joe just got his driver’s license back too. He’d lost it on a DUI when he first learned his wife was cheating. I gave him rides home sometimes when we were out late. His other friends pitched in too. Joe has a nice place now for his children and him. I don’t know if wifey poo is getting back in.

Natalie at the Broadway Deli filled me in on what she knew of Mary’s death. Jessica listened in, as she knew Mary too. When we mentioned Becky’s death last year this was news to Jessica. These two had been friends who fell out of touch. Jessica was getting married and expecting her first – Ethan – when Becky died. Jessica was wondering why she hadn’t heard from Becky. I smoothed the harsh double-whammy jolt as best I could.

Joyce, the lady who washes and folds my laundry, knew Mary too. More specifically Joyce knows Mary’s parents. Mary’s death is hard on them.

For the last few days I’ve been mostly listening to our friends: Nick, and Rob, Carla and Kristine, and Deb, Nikki and Christine talk.

Tonight was Tiffany’s first night back since Mary’s death. I gave her a big hug, and listened to her story. Paige, who means well but sometimes needs extra attention, gave me a wet-Willy.

I can be strong and calm and caring. But I think of Ningnong and the tsunami.

I’m an iconoclast and an atheist.

Theist have been brainwashed to attack me as an apostate, blasphemer, and a heretic. I bring it on myself, they say – which is no excuse at all really. I can take the violence, the threats, and the insults; my point is I shouldn’t have to. All theists do when they attack me is to demonstrate what they really are, and it’s nothing I’d be proud of.

Out of a crowd of people I’m the one strangers will approach for help: directions here and there, a hand with something heavy, an escort through some scary place. I've returned wayward children, aid the injured at accidents, and let other drivers into traffic when no one else will.

I try to be good towards my friends too. Right now they need me strong, and calm, and caring. Thus I will be.

Merry Christmas

Thu, 25 Dec 2008 07:00:13 GMT

They Hurt You At Home & They Hit You At School

Mon, 15 Dec 2008 08:48:51 GMT

Well, I’ve picked up another dingbat - check out steathhozer’s comment to Odd Observations.

I’m mindful of the John Lennon’s lyrics to Working Class Hero as covered by Green Day:

As soon as your born they make you feel small
By giving you no time instead of it all
Till the pain is so big you feel nothing at all
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

They hurt you at home and they hit you at school
They hate you if you're clever and they despise a fool
Till you're so fucking crazy you can't follow their rules
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

When they've tortured and scared you for twenty odd years
Then they expect you to pick a career
When you can't really function you're so full of fear
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV,
And you think you're so clever and classless and free,
But you're still fucking peasants as far as I can see,
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

There's room at the top they are telling you still
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill
If you want to be like the fool on the hill
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

If you want to be a hero, well just follow me

I’m well aware I’m working class thank you.

My insubordination is deliberate, dare I say deserved?

There are people out there, people softer yet somehow better than me. I don’t mind. People are welcome to think they’re better than me – or even be better than me - those whom I’ve helped to shelter and protect; cloth and feed. I know what role I played and how I am stepping out of bounds. I don’t really care what the rules are anymore.

I don’t think softer people owe me anything, not even my discharge. I earned it, but collectively you took it. Congratulations, really. I didn’t even see it coming – nicely done.

I look around and I see a lot of people – soft people – who don’t know how to protect themselves, with or without a gun, and people who have never built a house or harvested a crop. I’m just a grunt – a deck ape really, but I know things, I’ve seen things, and I’ve done things.

The watch I stand will end – March 2010, I’m told.

Advice I've absorbed:

Thu, 11 Dec 2008 06:02:17 GMT

Boxing maxim: "Kill the body, the head will fall."

"Win graciously, lose graciously", advised my Dad, adding "No one respects a sore loser or a gloating winner."

"Don’t take orders you don’t have to", advised Dad.

"Don’t be a mouth-breather: breathe through your nose, not through your mouth", advised Lt Col James "Bo" Gritz.

"Don’t be a rubber-necker: help or get out of the way", advised Lt Col James "Bo" Gritz.

"You can’t keep a good mind down", advised Pam.

Sometimes I remind myself "If others can do this so can I."

"The woman chooses the distance, the man leads", advised dance instructor Olga. She added "Protect your partner, and let her dance."

"Professional writers don’t use ampersands", advised vickyunleashed.

"Smooth punch; don’t slam punch", advised boxing Coach Jack Albis.

Benchmark

Sun, 07 Dec 2008 08:51:38 GMT

A new recovering benchmark:

Bench Press: 295lbs.
Body Weight: 249lbs.

My boxing coach, Jack, says I’m pushing my broken arm too hard.

He’s 80 years old, still fit, and the real deal. I’ve been with him four years now, and he’s right, I am pushing myself, maybe a little too hard. I have a lot of respect for Jack. His wife of 58 years was diagnosed with cancer and has been no more than seven months to live, probably less. This morning she kicked Jack out of the house and sent him to boxing class. Jack knows her death will be hard. He’s fit for 80, but has survived three heart attacks himself. I have to respect the courage he’s showing, knowing a hard blow is coming, and facing it square.

When Jack first saw me pounding the heavy bags again he said he’d never thought he’d see me do that again. Jack was the first visitor through the door when I was in the hospital. He’s always advising me to take it easier, slower, and smoother.

I mean to recover though, and I can be stubborn.

On a lighter note I spoke to Ashley again. My friend Steve tells me she’s single, but she’s also much younger than I expected. There’s no harm in saying "Hello" though, right?

This morning, after boxing class, I found Bea and Michael’s older daughter Madeline waiting in the hall outside our room. She’s eight (I think), and was very excited to have won a drawing contest. She is quite the little artist. Her prize was six tickets to the Nutcracker Ballet in Portland after Bea’s workout. She’d also get to meet the cast and take pictures on the set after the performance.

While I was lifting earlier I chalked up my hands and approached the weight bench. An older man stopped me with "Excuse me, Big Guy. You knocked the chalk bag over."

He was right, I had. I set the bag right, and said "Thanks."

There was a time I thought people whom called me "Big Guy" were mocking me. I know now none meant harm. I get called "Rugged" a lot too, or compared to various animals or machines. I’m stronger than average, but almost anyone can achieve what I’ve gained. I won’t take steroids or otherwise cheat either.

Later, in the locker room, I saw the older man again. We got to talking, and he has an interesting scar too, where Willie Horton bit him.

Horton, along with two buddies, robbed, tortured, and killed a teenage convenience store clerk in Lawrence, Massachusetts, back in 1974, even after the lad had handed over the register’s money and otherwise cooperated. Horton is a burly, six foot three inch psycho. He cut off the boy’s fingers, toes, and genitals, then dumped the boy’s body in a dumpster.

The man said the two accomplices were meek followers, but Horton was challenging the guards straight away. At one point Horton tried to break the now retired guard’s neck. They got wrapped up, and Horton bit the guard’s arm hard enough the scar is still visible in 2008. The bite broke up when the guard’s sergeant used a baton to apply blunt force trauma to Horton’s head.

Later, Horton took advantage of an ill-advised furlough program to escape, pillage and rape. Sometimes I don’t get why we insist on locking up non-violent offenders with violent criminals, or why we think we think our penal system is anything but a money-making sham, or what level of incompetence does it take to furlough a Willie Horton?

I’m no Willie Horton, though as an atheist I’m still the bad guy to a great many people. I’m reading Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion. A waitress whom is usually curious as to what I’m reading asked if she could borrow this when I’m done, as I frequently pass books on to friends. While examining the book she read a few of the chapter titles aloud, silently mouthing any overtly atheist sentiments. She was wearing a crucifix, and surrounded by Christians. I’m not going to publically out her: she’d loose her job, certainly, following a no doubt unpleasant, emotional blaze of "Christian Love."

After boxing this morning, I caught the matinee of Rachel Getting Married at the Eveningstar. I sat on a couch down front of course. I thought the movie powerfully acted. After the credits I noticed a pocketbook had been left behind. I rummaged through it…

I brought it to the counter, joking with John, the owner. I typically skip the trailers, arriving just in time for the show, or "Late" as John likes to call it.

John’s an honest man, and I left the pocketbook in his good hands. I visited the lavatory. It was stuffed full of old men. The geezer in front of me managed to spray everything but the urinal. I noted he didn’t wash his hands either. This is The Greatest Generation?

I stepped back outside to find a crowd milling about discussing the film. Twelve people is a crowd in small-town Maine. My landlord Jim stepped up to say "Hello" and shook my hand. Jim is friends with John too, apparently. John asked Jim "How do you know ‘Dozer?"

"He’s one of my tenants", Jim replied.

John decided to tease me, right there. "Oh, does he pay his rent on time?"

"One of my best," Jim replied. I knew by Jim’s hollow smile the question made him uneasy, and I'm never late with rent.

"Well, he’s always late here", John sniffed with mock outrage.

Just then I spotted a panic-stricken older woman running through the crown. I just handed her the purse from the counter. She was melting even as I walked away.

Odd Observations

Tue, 02 Dec 2008 08:40:29 GMT

Okay, that was odd.

Both my supervisors are here tonight. Both get scheduled five days of work, so there’s some overlap.

Both supervisors pitched in, without any prompting, on the tasks at hand. Both are retired senior enlisted, just like everybody else here (except me). Normally I do all the work while they do all the supervising.

I went to print off our tasking orders, and both of them leapt into action. It was a bit disconcerting actually. One grumbled over why I do our inventory in order (it’s more efficient that way when we turn over to the next watch). The other didn’t know how to operate the "new" (nine years old) Data Transfer Device. But still, these guys were willing to help.

The overwhelming majority of people here are jokes. Most of them are consistently late, especially the retired Chiefs. One of them drinks on the job, another smokes in the men’s toilet when the weather is uncomfortable (Maine frequently suffers poor weather). Most of them are untrustworthy, and frequently incompetent.

Now that my tasks are done both my supervisors have left to go shopping at WalMart (it's open 24 hours). I appreciate the help despite their ulterior motives and it took less than five minutes to correct their minor mistakes.

My "day" started at 1800 (6PM). I hit the snooze button on my alarm clock four times. I hit the shower at 1820, after quaffing a quart of milk straight from the bottle, bathed in the glow of my refrigerator’s pale light. The sun was already down.

I arrived at the gym by 1900 (7PM). I brought a gym bag someone had left in the parking lot in with me. Wayne was working the front desk. I held the bag up, said "Lost and found" by way of greeting, and headed to the locker room. The bag had been claimed by the time I wandered up to the weight room.

The gym was packed with sailors from the pre-commissioning ships being built at Bath Iron Works. There were three brothers and a Latino, lifting as a group, and a recovering redneck going solo, in addition to some of us regulars. Two of the brothers obviously knew their way around a weight room, and the four of them managed to stay out of everyone’s way. The recovering redneck was spastic though.

He wasn’t very fit. His wore his hair as close to a mullet as Navy regulations will allow. He grunted and screamed and huffed expressively while pumping ridiculously tiny weights - 15 pound curls! He preened a lot too, at one point removing his shirt in order to ogle his body in the mirror and flex his spindly arms. I found myself sharing a snicker with the other sailors at the redneck’s expense. Little did the attention queen know how silly he appeared.

In the locker room I encountered the Mixed Up Martial Artist. He’d been playing racquet ball. I’m not a doctor, but it appeared he is no longer abusing steroids. His muscles weren’t puffy with water retention, and his acne seems to have cleared. He seemed happier too. He made friendly eye contact and asked "How’s it going, man?" as we passed. I wish him well.

After my shower I noticed other patrons had left three locks and a hairbrush behind, plus two unsecured overnight lockers with personal gear inside. I turned the items in to Lost and Found, and alerted the janitor to the unsecured lockers. There’s been a thief in the men’s locker room lately. While it’s only a matter of time until he’s caught, I’ve no intention of making things easy for him.

People are truly forgetful too. I’m consistently finding wallets, watches, and other valuables left in the locker room. I even found a full suitcase in the parking lot once. I mentioned that to the day supervisor at work, thinking it amusing someone left luggage behind, and wondering aloud what circumstances brought about that mishap. Happily the luggage was tagged and the owner soon contacted.

The day supervisor was aghast. "I wouldn’t have touched that" he declared.

"Why not?" It’s not like anyone would accuse me of being a thief. I simply turn in too many valuables week in and week out to be a suspect.

"What if it were a bomb?" he asked. Apparently Maine is overwhelmed by IED’s in his fevered imagination. I can’t imagine living my life in such irrational fear.

Benchmark

Sun, 30 Nov 2008 07:49:52 GMT

A new recovering benchmark:

Bench Press: 290lbs.
Body Weight: 248lbs.

I’m not very sensitive, am I?

I was annoyed at traffic as I drove to the gym earlier this past week. How do the slow drivers all manage to get in front of me?

I wasn’t speeding mind you. I was trying to drive the speed limit yet kept encountering vehicles being driven too slowly.

The gym wasn’t crowded last Monday night either, maybe five patrons upstairs, and only two of us in the weight area.

My fellow iron pumper was a pimply-faced adolescent basketball player who managed to get underfoot no matter what station I worked. I bench pressed, and he was right there. As I used the preacher curl bench he stood directly in front of me, curling small weights and preening in the mirror. I moved over to the flat bench, and he moved with me. I was getting annoyed when he finally left.

Wednesday night had twice as many patrons but was far more social. I knew, at least in passing, all but one other person in the room, an attractive young lady with hair somewhere between blond and light brown.

People came over to say "Hello" between sets, or I stopped to say "Hi" during quick water-breaks, but nobody interrupted each other’s routine. Everyone was practicing good gym etiquette and having a good time. By the time I was finished I realized I had spoken to everyone in the room except the young lady. She was sitting on one of the more confusing machines looking perplexed when I approached. Before I could say a word she asked "Am I doing this right?" Her eyes were really blue.

Just the week before someone’s grandmother had mistaken me for a gym employee and asked if I could help sort her out on this very machine. I explained that I didn’t work her (it’s a common mistake), but helped her anyway. Sometimes patrons ask for my help in front of actual gym staff. Even Mike, the gym’s Athletic Director, is amused when this happens.

Having helped someone just last week I was able to help her with just a few minor adjustments. She had it mostly right.

Finished with the settings, I introduced myself "I’m Dozer."

"I see you here all the time", she smiled. After a moment, she stopped her exercise and shook my hand. "I’m Ashley", she said. Her hand was tiny.

We chatted a little about the exercise she was doing. At one point I admitted "I don’t use the machines any more. They’ve poor ergonomics, and some of the exercises are actually counter-productive." I cringed a little, "Sorry, I’m a bit of a geek." Really, who used the word "ergonomics" in a chat-up line?

Being in a family gym and not a meat market, I don’t normally approach strangers in the gym, especially young women, as many of you know. It’s not my place to make others uncomfortable. I explained "I wanted to say ‘Hello’...it occurred to that I’d spoken to everyone here but you, and I didn’t want you to feel ostracized." Ergonomics, ostracized? I’m my own worst obstacle at times. Luckily Ashley seemed quite gracious regarding my awkwardness, so huzzah for that.

Friday I groaned when I saw another adolescent basketball player in the weight area. My mistake, though: this one had impeccable gym-manners. I mentioned this to Roger, a wiser man than I, comparing this youth to Monday’s spastic avenger. Roger explained Monday’s youth was probably seeking training advice and tips, but simply didn’t know how to ask.

That just hadn’t occurred to me, though I saw the truth of it now. Damn I can be dense.

Sita interrupted my weight routine to play with the tear-drop - a small speed bag our coach Jack had left for us to use. We had fun taking turns at it. It’s a smaller bag, so it moves quite fast. It’s also far less forgiving of bludgeoning errors. Jack likes to tell us that it’s called a "tear-drop" not just for its small size but rather it makes even professional boxers cry. Seta is quite talented, and the excursion proved a welcomed break. I found the drill particularly challenging as my arms, pumped from heavy lifting, felt quite logy.

Saturday morning Jack was training us. He mentioned in front of the class he could tell both Sita and I had been working with the tear-drop. Improvement is gain.

Benchmark

Sun, 23 Nov 2008 09:47:56 GMT

A new recovering benchmark:

Bench Press: 285lbs.
Body Weight: 249lbs.

I benched four reps at two-hundred eighty five pounds. That was my first benchmark too, from three years ago. For you movie buffs, 285 pounds is what Sean MaGuire played by Robin Williams could bench press in 1997’s Good Will Hunting.

As I passed by a row of cars I approached a toddler swathed in pink, standing safely on the sidewalk. She smiled up at me, recognizing me before I recognized her big brown eyes: Charlotte, Bea and Michael’s youngest daughter. Knowing I was a friend, Charlotte called out "Mama" to summon Bea from her wrestling match against a car seat deep within their minivan. We enjoyed a brief chat despite a brisk, biting wind. Michael had just earned his black belt after many years of training, good news indeed.

I’m glad Charlotte likes me. She’s very expressive about whom she does and does not like. Michael is Sue’s son. I’ve known them since 1975.

One advantage of living in this community is I know somebody most places I go. I’ve travelled abroad, and I’ll travel again. In fact I know I cannot stay here. I'm just home for now. At least one of my homes...

My deceased Father’s family still lives in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. My step-sister Susie (mentioned here) was on the news (here), commenting on a thief who used his baby for cover, then ditched the infant to escape. Susie is the petite woman who said "It’s one thing to steal...whatever...but the poor child." People, especially babies, aren’t as important as stuff.

I often feel awkward around my step-family. They’re not perfect, but they are decent. They’ve not betrayed me as my own family has. They’ve always made me feel welcome. I remember Susie as a quiet little girl who one summer’s day at our family camp decided to cannonball me from her raft as I floated by in a rubber dingy. She clambered aboard, and chattered away brightly for half-an-hour.

I miss my step-family, I just don’t feel right around them. I think it’s the weight of self-loathing I carry.

Self-loathing is a useful aegis. Ad hominems from the incompetent are moot, dooming typical Middle-class manipulation tactics. You think I’m an asshole, but I think you’re an amateur. That must get frustrating fast. I’m the bad guy, so what? That still doesn’t prove the existence of an imaginary god, the practicality of an ideology, or prompt any of the nonsensical lies so passionately believed into sudden truth overtime. Reality isn’t a game. One cannot make something real by just believing a little bit harder.

Self-loathing may promote insensitivity. Has that not proved necessary too? I am the disgruntled product of your successful campaign of disenfranchisement, for which I offer my heartiest congratulations. Well played indeed. Even I am sensitive enough to recognize you’ve already made your decision. I can detect your pride in your inability to change your own mind.

Freedom doesn’t mean having choices or having things your way: freedom means having nothing left to loose.

~~E Pluribus Unum~~
~~In God We Trust~~
~~One Nation Under God~~
Next?

Speed Bag Meditation

Wed, 19 Nov 2008 08:04:46 GMT

I’m getting well again. I was working my speed bag tonight, producing a steady cadence fellow boxer Sita recognized. She’s was taking a gymnastics course with her small daughter, Kaylee.

I was tired and sweaty following my hour long workout on the heavy bag. I hung my personal speed bag on the gym’s ancient platform. Our 80 years old coach Jack is proud of the platform, a circle of well-varnished hardwood about three feet in diameter and some three inches thick. The platform is 150 years old, and hangs on an iron bracket secured to a wall. Jack rescued the platform from the basement of the old gym when the new gym opened a few years ago. He says it’s worth $700. I respectfully disagree – I think it’s irreplaceable.

Sita recognized my cadence on the speed bag and brought Kaylee over for a visit after gymnastics. Sita’s pretty good on the bags too. I asked Kaylee if she’d like to try the speed bag. Sita held her up, and Kaylee responded with more enthusiasm than skill. I smiled "It’s harder than it looks, huh?" Kaylee nodded and smiled. I added "You’re Mom’s pretty good at this."

I did two rounds on my speed bag, then one round on Jack’s teardrop. The teardrop is much smaller than a regular speed bag. It moves very fast, and is definitely an acquired skill. I was satisfied to get a steady cadence from it. There’s something meditative about working a speed bag, much different from a heavy bag I’ve found.

I used to leave my speed bag for the other boxers to use. The gym staff kept letting unqualified people use it however, even when my name was prominently displayed on it, and a list of authorized personnel posted. At one point while my arm was broken someone actually stole my old bag, anonymously returning it soon after I started working out again.

Benchmark

Sun, 09 Nov 2008 09:04:52 GMT

A new recovering benchmark:

Bench Press: 275lbs.
Body Weight: 250lbs.

My head is swelling. The rain drummed the roof of the gym Friday, 07 November 2008. I was halfway through my routine when I stepped into the hall to hydrate at the bubbler. The hall was swarming with a horde of ten years olds. The children were lined-up to head into the aerobics room for some activity. Boys and girls shouted "Whoa - Look at those muscles!" when they saw how pumped I was, followed by enthusiastic calls for "Flex!" and "Gun Show!"

After a quick guzzle of water I flexed a nineteen-inch, iron-pumped bicep for them. The kids got quiet and bugged eyed for just a moment, except for one little moppet who exclaimed "Holy!"

Cute kids. Their teacher was easy on the eye too.

I swam a few laps the night before instead of boxing. Jack officially started his boxing class up again Saturday, 08 November, 2008, and I wanted to give my hands a rest. We’ve three pools at the gym: an Olympic-sized pool for swimming laps, a therapy pool for splashing around, and a hot tub for soaking. I was disappointed to note the therapy pool was closed due to a bio-hazard again. There’s a retard home nearby and the gym is required let them use the pool. One of the retards poops in the pool at least once a week it seems. The gym staff fears litigation the retard’s family might bring if the pooper were banned from the pool. I find it a tiresome bother mostly.

After swimming a few laps in the Olympic pool, I thought I’d see Religulous again, this time at the Eveningstar, a quirky little one-screen movie theatre on Maine Street, in Brunswick.

I got to the movie two minutes before curtain and was the only customer there. A girl with purple-coloured hair sold me a ticket.

I noticed I would be alone during the movie, and was just announcing my intention to watch the show naked when a couple arrived. They’d overhead me and thought I was hilarious, mostly as a reflection of the good humour they were already in. They seemed to enjoy each other’s company. A few more people wandered in, perhaps six of us in all. I sat on one of the four couches down front, the friendly couple shared the couch next to mine, and we chatted a little before the show started up. They were very much in love.

We were all enjoying the movie, even though this was my second viewing. I picked out details I’d missed the first time. Suddenly the screen sputtered and went dark. The attendant had missed a reel change!

I took the initiative (I usually do) and was halfway up the aisle when the projectionist yelled down "Sorry!"

A few moments later the show picked up where it left off and we were all soon engrossed again.

After the show I bid the friendly couple "Good Night", and was heading out when the projectionist, an overweight, unimposing blond youth with a pasty completion asked me in passing if I enjoyed the movie.

"Of course", I said, adding with a shrug and a smile "I’m atheist."

I should have known better. I thought he might be asking for a genuine conversation. People often pick me out of a crowd to discuss matters with me.

Yet when one announces atheism in America one can expect to attract religious dingbats like moths to a flame. I’ve been to 24 different countries, and only in America will a simple acknowledgement of atheism provoke a proud declaration of "I believe in Jesus Christ!" Does this imaginary Christ fellow even have humble followers anymore?

In this case, when I answered "I’m atheist" the pudgy young projectionist huffed "Well I'm a Mormon."

I missed the purple-haired girl. She had a sense of humour. I decided to tease the Mormon anyway. It was obvious he wanted to pick a debate.

I asked playfully "Does that explain your missing the reel-change? Was that some sort of protest?"

"Everybody’s entitled to an opinion," he snapped defensively.

"So Charles Manson’s opinion is just as valuable as Albert Einstein’s?" I mocked. He seemed upset, and retreated back into the theatre.

Not ten minutes later I was just leaving the nearby Gelato Fiasco after quaffing a lemon drink when Mormon boy stumbled out of the night. I held the door for him, and recognition flashed across his brain-pan as he passed. He gasped and leapt away as if horns were about to spring from my forehead. He scurried inside. I wondered what position I’d be in were I less fit than he.

Did I mention Jack’s boxing class starting at 0800, Saturday mornings? It was great to see everyone again, and we’ve attracted half a dozen new students.

With so many beginners we did more talking than training I’m afraid. We discovered the Mixed Martial Artists have been abusing our equipment again. A chain to hold one of the three heavy bags was missing, leaving us just two heavy bags.

I did get to break a sweat against a heavy bag. Al, one of the new students, said I inspired him. He’d broken his arm five years ago, and was only now starting to train again. He expressed admiration that I was already at it. I wonder what he’ll think when I get my strength back?

Jack is 80 years old, but still fit. He played a Benny Goodman tape when we worked on footwork. Perhaps he didn’t want me to play Sinead O’Connor?

I’ve been with Jack for four years now. During past classes he’d have me demonstrate various techniques, especially when training beginners. I had to smile when Jack had Sita demonstrate footwork and such today. She’s much lighter and more graceful than I am – and better looking too. Like most heavy-weights my feet seem nailed to the floor. After she was done demonstrating footwork to Benny Goodman’s 1938 groove she was standing beside me. I whispered playfully "Dancing Queen." It was good to be back.

After boxing class I thought I’d catch a matinee at the multiplex before going to bed (I work third shift). Two movies this week! How scandalous!

Three different friends had advised me to see Role Models. I must admit, after seeing the trailer, I wasn’t interested. It turns out my instincts were wrong.

This movie was really funny, if unexpectedly so. The kid who played "McLovin" in Superbad is in this movie too, and once again he steals the show. He makes dorky awkwardness infectious. Maybe it’s because his characters are fundamentally decent? I find his approach refreshing, as most Hollywood nerds don’t really portray decent people at all.

On the way into the movie I heard someone yell "Dozer!"

It was Pam. I'm recognizable from some distance. I’ve known her thirty years now and she’s still beautiful. She gave me a hug, and we chatted happily for a few minutes. I was still bandaged up the last time I’d seen her a few months ago. I showed her "Franken-Arm" (my heavily scarred forearm). She mentioned I was getting huge again too. She invited me over for a visit after the movie, her sisters were visiting too. I declined. She put her foot down, so I agreed to visit soon. I will too, if only because I said so.

Thermocline Inducer

Thu, 06 Nov 2008 23:31:49 GMT

Leslie, the day supervisor at work, was stuck. She's taking classes at a Community College. Her assignment was to present a new technology, and she just couldn't think of one. She asked my help, so I told her about my Thermocline Inducer.

If you've ever swam in a Maine lake and dove 12 feet or so down you've noticed the water is suddenly much colder. That's a thermocline: in this case it's water too deep for sunlight's warmth. Thermoclines are natural in water deep enough.

Back in the 1990's Russian nuclear-powered submarines suddenly became much quieter than our own. Nuclear reactors are essentially high-tech steam plants, and must be cooled. Our submarines rely on pumps - quieted pumps to be sure - but not perfectly silent. Their soft thumping can be detected by those trained and equipped to hear them.

The Russians stopped using pumps and started using a naturally recirculating cooling system. Picture the reactor at the bottom of a big water tank or pool. The reactor heats the cooling water, which rises to the top of the pool and starts cascading through a series of cooling pipes throughout the length of their submarine, eventually flowing back into the bottom of the cooling tank where it is warmed again to continue the process. We're left listening for the sound of water flowing through water.

The Japanese prefer natural sunlight for health and productivity. Some large Japanese buildings have solar collectors on their roofs connected to fiber optics running throughout the structure providing natural sunlight instead of fluorescent lighting to the occupants within.

The idea of a thermocline inducer is to build large tubes floating vertically in the ocean. The tube should be long enough to puncture a thermocline. Solar collectors set at the top of the tube on the ocean's surface send light via fiber optics to the far end of the tube below the thermocline. Water is heated - slightly - and rises up the tube where turbine blades collect the energy from the rising water. Their should be a filter at the bottom of the tube to protect the turbine blades. The water simply flows out the top of the tube.

The thermocline inducers are limited to sunlight usage only. One application is to float these thermocline inducers on barges moving about kelp fields in littoral regions. Kelp is generally not a food crop, and can be turned into bio-diesel without compromising land resources. The barges, powered by thermocline inducers, can be move from field to field processing kelp into renewable fuel.

Lobster-men, possibly displaced by this process, can find steady employment maintaining and harvesting kelp fields. Work is work.

There are local applications for a thermocline inducer too. Residential communities can set units up much like a backyard pool, and power small clusters of homes and businesses, rendering large utility companies and sprawling power grids obsolete.

A thermocline inducer uses proven, off-the-shelf technology in a new way.

It was fun watching Leslie's jaw drop. It's only one of many possibilities. I didn't tell her my idea was years old, or why it's unlikely to be built.

We Won!

Wed, 05 Nov 2008 11:03:12 GMT

It’s understatement to say the United States is a mess right now. It figures we’d send in a black guy to clean things up. I’m relieved the ideology of fear and smear has been repudiated, for now.

I wonder to what depth of vileness the Conservatives will now sink? I'm not expecting grace or dignity from that quarter.

I'll be reminding Conservatives what John Wayne said about John F. Kennedy:

"I didn't vote for him but he's my President, and I hope he does a good job."

There's dignity in those words.

Benchmark

Tue, 04 Nov 2008 04:56:34 GMT

A new recovering benchmark:

Bench Press: 270lbs.
Body Weight: 250lbs.

I hope Obama wins. I’ll be glad when the election is over. I still think the United States is a criminal organization. I doubt either candidate will change that, but we’ll see.

In case you’re wondering, Obama’s deceased grandmother’s ballot still counts. It must have been her proudest vote.

Republicans, whom have a tendency to get things wrong, firmly believe McCain can win. I don't share their faith.

Maybe It's The Guns?

Sun, 02 Nov 2008 11:00:44 GMT

"When you disarm your subjects you offend them by showing that either from cowardliness or lack of faith, you distrust them, and either conclusion will induce them to hate you."
~ Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince.

Daniel Cowart, of Bells, Tennessee, along with Paul Schlesselman, of Helena-West Helena, Arkansas, planned to shoot or decapitate 88 high school students, and then assassinate Senator Barack Obama.
Story here.

I’m not against private gun ownership. There are a myriad of good reasons to own a gun in my opinion. Hunting, for example, is most effective with a shotgun or rifle. When I was a boy in Virginia, I was fascinated with black-powder muskets. As a former archer, I’ve great respect bow hunters, and I’m curious about spear hunting in Pennsylvania. I think responsible hunting is necessary for the overall health of our environment. Deer populations left un-culled can wreck havoc for example.

Guns, especially shotguns, can be effective for self-defense. I realize weak people may need a gun to defend themselves. I’m not a fan of gun-nuts however: I’ve never met a gun-nut worth spit in melee.

Guns are a polarizing issue in the United States, and there are limitations to guns that generally aren’t talked about here. For example, the 21 foot rule is always in effect. Up to 20% of the Law Enforcement Officers shot in the line of duty have their own guns used against them, and these are men and women who have weapon retention skills and trained partners: resources the average frightened redneck lacks.

Obviously one’s gun makes one a target of criminals. Were I not such a gentle, timid soul I'd write an inflammatory letter to the editor of the local paper denouncing gun ownership, noting the names and towns of those whom would renounce me. These are the home-owners I would ambush unfairly for the sole purpose of prying their guns from their warm and twitching hands.

I have to wonder too if guns weren’t such a polarizing issue what the actual statistics are regarding whom is hurt by guns and how? How many accidents are there? How many suicides, murders or assaults? What percentage of the people shot in the United States every year are criminals who frankly deserved what the get?

Many years ago I read a book that made great sense to me: Cheap Shots, Ambushes, And Other Lessons: A Down And Dirty Book On Streetfighting & Survival by Marc "Animal" MacYoung. He advocates the use of a cutlass for self-defense, an assessment with which I agree.

In the tunnels beneath No Man’s Land in World War One, Canadian combat engineers rediscovered the devastating effectiveness of a short broadsword in close quarters, according to The Whites of Their Eyes by Roger Ford. This runs counter to the redneck ideology that firepower reigns supreme.

Self-defense situations are almost always Close Quarters Combat. With just a bit of training and common sense an attacker would lose his fingers should he try to wrest your blade away. A cutlass also offers greater control of the harm you inflict on your attacker, lethal or otherwise, while placing loved ones and innocents at far less risk than a gun does.

If your attacker brings a gun into a Close Quarters situation he’ll have trouble firing it as it lies on the ground while his remaining hand holds the bloody stump where his gun hand used to be. Darkness, surprise, and intimate familiarity with your environment are in your favor when defending your home. When the police arrive to clean up the mess, you not likely to be charged: "Why, yes, officer, my attacker was close enough to me that I got him with a sword." Are there any jurisdictions in the where that doesn’t qualify as self-defense? Legally, guns can get messy, especially if you hit someone other than your intended target.

During SAF/S-SETT training we learned that most gun fights take place between three and nine feet, and that five out of six round miss. This is with a level of training most rednecks seldom achieve. A British study of 20th Century warfare indicated that only one out of every 100 rounds fired in combat actually struck their target. My point here is that properly wielded in close quarters a cutlass or short broadsword may be superior to a gun in many instances.

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