It Was Twenty Years Ago, Today...

This is a tough one, so bear with me.

In the fall of 1991, things were going pretty wel for good old Tom. I had been working my way up the ladder at the Las Vegas TV station where I had been employed for around nine months. I had gone from Assignment Editor to Associate Producer of the 11pm newscast. The News Director at the time had given me the chance to produce the station's weekly Public Affairs program, Newsmakers. Yes, it's as boring as it sounds. It's one of those shows that run early Sunday mornings in order to meet minimum FCC requirements for airing shows that 'serve the public interest', so a station can keep it's broadcast license. 

The fact that only a handful of people were watching the show never mattered to me. I was now officially a television producer! Name in the credits and everything! Of course, being TV news, I was getting paid next to nothing, so I was living with my parents in their palatial estate in the shadow of Sunrise Mountain. 

On October 21 of 1991, my father was complaining of chest pains. Now, my father was never the type to complain about anything. In fact, I never remember him being sick once. The man was a bit accident prone, though. When I was seven years old, a pot of cooking oil caught fire in the kitchen. My Dad, in a moment of panic, decided to try to grab the pot and dump the hot oil outside. Not the best plan, since hot oil splashed out of the pot, severely burning his left hand in the process. It was one of my earliest memories that's still vivid in my mind.

A decade later, our cat bit him on the same hand and caused a terrible infection that almost necessitated the hand be amputated. The cat had to go into protective custody for a while, though. Then there was the time he decided to walk to the nearby Baskin & Robbins to get some ice cream for us. He fell down a hill and broke his ankle. The man had to literally drag himself to a nearby house to get help. The ice cream didn't make it. Still, Dad never complained once. He was a tough cookie.

My mother and I knew that, if my Dad was actually concerned about these chest pains, we'd better take him to the hospital. They ran tests and discovered that several arteries were blocked and suggested a procedure called angioplasty, where the blockages are opened using a balloon that is inserted into the blood vessels. The procedure was fairly common so, we were optimistic about the results. The doctors performed the angioplasty and after a few days in the hospital, my father was released. 

Something wasn't quite right, though. He just didn't seem the same. He wasn't his usual energetic self. For the first time, he seemed every bit his sixty-seven years. My Mom and I just chalked it up to the recovery process. After all, he'd only been home a couple of days.

The morning of October 28 I was awaked by the sound of screaming.

My mother was yelling for me to call an ambulance. I grabbed the cordless phone and called 911 as I ran down the stairs. Mom was hysterical as she pointed to the bathroom. I went in and saw my father slumped over on the toilet, eyes half open. The 911 operator was asking me what was going on. I told her. She was sending help. She asked me if I knew CPR. I had been certified in CPR a few years before while in High School, but had never actually performed it on anything other than a practice dummy.

Francis Thomas Feeney
1924-1991

I hope I never have to do it again. 

I lifted my Dad off the seat and laid him down on the bathroom floor, my mother watching from just outside the doorway. I am not sure if it was the adrenaline pumping, but I remember being surprised how little he weighed when I picked him up. I started the CPR, but I knew he was already gone. He was cold. I did the breathing and chest compressions as instructed by the operator. After each breath of air pushed into my father's lungs, the chest compressions would only force the air right out again. My father had dentures and the rush of air caused them to rattle like those novelty wind-up chattering teeth. That's a sound I will never forget.

I kept the CPR going until the paramedics arrived. I knew my Dad was gone, but I didn't want to stop while my Mom was watching. I didn't want her to think I was giving up trying to save him. The official cause of death was a massive heart attack. There was no autopsy. I wish we would have requested one, because you don't leave the hospital after a relatively simple procedure and die less than a week later with no connection.

There was no funeral, no service. My father was cremated and we spread his ashes under the tree he planted in the backyard. That's what he wanted. The next few months were pretty rough. I was worried that my Mom would just shut down completely. And she did, for a while. We didn't even celebrate Christmas that year. We didn't even have a tree. My Dad was the one who loved to put up these elaborate light displays each holiday. Didn't seem right to celebrate without him. I volunteered to work Christmas Day because I didn't even want to think about it.

Twenty years later and I sometimes find it hard to remember his voice. I still see his face every day when I look in the mirror. When he died, I was just beginning my journey into adulthood. There were many times I could have used his advice. We didn't always see eye to eye and there a lot of times that I believed he just didn't 'get' me. We were very different. Now, I think we're very much alike.

The days and weeks after my father's passing are pretty much a blur to me now. There is one thing I remember vividly; My mother told me something the day after Dad died that made me sad and happy at the same time. She said, "You know, he really liked you." 

Even typing those words now, I feel myself well up.

I really liked you too, Dad. 

The Day After

On September 12, 2001, Americans woke up in a different country. Things had changed. There was an eerie stillness in the air. It wasn't just that the only things flying at that time were the birds in the sky. The entire nation was in a state of collective shock.


I spent that morning like most of us did...eyes glued to the non-stop news coverage of the devastation and the ever-growing body count from the attacks. We were a country operating on auto-pilot, holding our breath waiting for what could or would happen next. Many went back to their jobs, trying to resume some semblance of normalcy in a world that had fundamentally changed.


We drove, we shopped for groceries, we ran errands, we moved forward from nothing more than sheer inertia. 


That day, my mother had an appointment at a local hospital to have a carotid angiogram. It's a procedure where a special dye is injected into the bloodstream to help an x-ray locate possible blockages in the arteries. In the majority of cases, the procedure is perfectly safe and is performed with no ill effects. 


Not this time.


I dropped my mom off at the hospital for her appointment. We were told the procedure would take at least an hour, so I went to a nearby record store to look around while my mom was having the angiogram. When I got back to the hospital, I asked the nurse on duty if she knew when my mom would be done. She got a strange look on her face and asked me to wait a moment. Seconds later, a doctor came out and told me what happened.


The dye they injected dislodged a tiny piece of arterial plaque that traveled into her brain. My mom suffered what is called a TIA or Transient Ischemic Attack. In effect, she had a mini stroke and had to be admitted to the hospital. I rushed up to her room and I saw her there, sitting up in the bed. She smiled at me and I asked her how she was. She didn't answer.


She couldn't answer.


The mini stroke had left my mother unable to speak. Her mental faculties were not impaired in any way, but she had become aphasic. Now, my mother was never the most emotionally accessible person. She didn't like outward displays of affection and hardly showed her feelings to anyone. She took out a notepad one of the nurses had given her so she could communicate. She wrote something on the pad and handed it to me;


'I love you.'


I pretty much lost it after that.


I spent the next four weeks with her as she struggled to get her power of speech back. Every day she got a little better, her words came a little bit more easily. She seemed changed by the experience. While the rest of the world was dealing with the aftermath of 9/11, I was dealing with being a caregiver. I had to be her voice. We bonded in a way we hadn't before. 


I didn't know at the time that those few weeks would be her last. 


One month later, on October 11, my mother had a cerebral hemorrhage. In the middle of the night, my mother awoke with a terrible migraine headache. I called an ambulance and watched as the paramedics put my mom on a stretcher and lifted her inside. Before they closed the doors, she told me to be sure to look after her purse.


It was the last thing she said to me.


My mom had been on blood thinners to prevent another stroke while awaiting a surgical procedure to remove the plaque from her arteries. She developed a brain bleed that could not be stopped. The doctors told me that the damage to her brain was too severe and she would never regain consciousness. On October 12, I had to make the most difficult decision of my entire life;


I had to have my mother taken off life support. I held her hand as I watched the numbers on the heart monitor slowly count down to zero. 


Looking back on those dark days, I am grateful for a few things.  My future wife dropped everything, put her own life on hold and flew out from New England to be by my side. She was a real source of strength for me. My brother also came out to help me make all the necessary arrangements. I never could have held it together without their support.  


I am especially grateful for those last few weeks I had with my mother and would not trade them for anything. 


While September 11, 2001 changed the lives of all Americans, my own life began a transformation the day after. I would soon leave the bright, brash confines of Las Vegas and venture eastward to begin a new life and start a new family.


I still miss my Mom, but I see her every day in the face of my own daughter. I only wish they could have had the chance to know each other.

My 9/11 Story

September 11, 2001 was an awful day for America and all Americans, myself included. I don't need to remind anyone of that. Thousands died that day and many more have perished since then during the two wars we have waged in the aftermath. For an entire generation, this has become the 'Where were you when...?' moment in their lives.

I am old enough to remember where I was when I heard Elvis Presley had died, when President Reagan and John Lennon were shot and when the space shuttle Challenger exploded shortly after takeoff. All were moments in time that will forever be burned into my memory. None compared to the horrific events of 9/11.

And yet, my memories of that day are dim at best.

I remember having to go into work early that day. I was living in Las Vegas and had a crappy call center job to pay the bills while I pursued a career as a TV producer. It was just before 6AM local time when the first plane hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Shortly afterwards, word made it to the call center floor that there was some kind of explosion in NYC. I had a pocket radio (remember those?) with me and I tuned it to the local NPR station to hear the coverage. I remember listening intently at the news coverage, both as an interested party and as a former journalist.  

You see, I spent 1991-1997 as a news writer/producer at KTNV-TV 13, the ABC affiliate in Las Vegas. For three of those years, I was producing the morning newscast; Good Morning Las Vegas. I was a news junkie. I loved the immediacy of it, the rush of experiencing information as soon as it happened. I felt part of the action, even though I was in a control booth wearing oversized headsets and trying (with limited success) to get the news anchors to stick to their scripts. I'd seen raw video of some truly awful things...things that could never be shown on the air.   

So, I had learned through the years to look at terrible events with a certain detachment. That's how I felt just after hearing the initial report.

It wasn't until the second plane hit a few minutes later that people started to realize that this wasn't an accident. That's when my detached curiosity quickly turned to fear and confusion. This was deliberate? Who could do such a thing with impunity? Who was capable of an act? What were they going to do next? As additional reports came in, it was clear that the worst of it was yet to come. There was word of evacuations in Washington D.C.  The White House and Capitol Building were being evacuated. Were they also being targeted? It was like something out of a Hollywood hugh-concept action movie.

Less than a half-hour later, the Pentagon was hit. My heart sank. I felt physically sick to my stomach. From that moment forward, I could only think about one thing...where is my brother?*

My older brother Michael was a colorful guy, to say the least. He joined the Navy to avoid some potentially serious legal trouble and wound up making the military a career. After leaving the service he became a computer security specialist. Not long before September 2001, Michael and his wife moved to Arlington, VA because he had a new job as part of a government contract. 

On September 11, 2001 my brother was moving into his new office space. At the Pentagon. 

I spent the rest of that day trying to find out if my brother was dead or alive. The phones there were not working, obviously, and those days (I say those days like it was a long time ago. Oh wait, it was.) not as many people carried cell phones. It wasn't until later that evening that my brother was finally able to reach me. As it turns out, he was in an adjacent building when the main structure was hit. 

Sadly, my brother's life would be cut short by failing health eight years later. I wonder how he would've commemorated this anniversary. I wish I had the chance to find out.

As I said, my memories of the day itself are fuzzy at best. Yes, September 11, 2001 was a terrible day to be sure.

For me, however, the following day was much, much worse. 

To be continued...

*My future wife was in NYC that day, with her Mom and sister. They had tickets to see a taping of The Rosie O'Donnell Show. They never made it to that taping. They endured a terrifying ordeal while scrambling to leave a city in total chaos. Amazingly, they managed to drive out of NYC before it was locked down. I forgot they were going to the city for the day. In a strange way, I'm glad I forgot.

Midnight in the Kindergarten of Good and Evil

The day started with a sleepy optimism as my young one slid out of her bed like a blond-haired Slinky® to prepare for her first day of really-real school. I was pleased by the lack of nervousness and apprehension at the breakfast table. I'm talking about my child, of course...I was a nervous wreck. The first day of Kindergarten qualifies as a Big Damn Deal. It marks the end of toddler-hood and the beginning of a new and scary and amazing and scary and momentous and scary and exciting time.

Oh, did I mention scary?

This is the point where parents lose control of their kids. A time when teachers, coaches, volunteers and other children begin to have a more direct impact on your child's daily life...an impact that can be for good or ill. I don't mind admitting that the idea scares the hell outta me.

NOT my kid's school entrance. Thank God.

What if she makes friends with a kid I don't like?

What if she makes no friends at all?

What if she learns bad words or bad manners or bad habits from the other kids?

What if she doesn't learn anything at all?

What if I worry too much? Too late...

What if she winds up like me?

When I was the age my daughter is now, I was a superstar among my family. I could already read and write. I could memorize and recite the Pledge of Allegiance. My parents thought I was some kind of child prodigy. By the time I was ten, it was obvious that wasn't the case. I peaked at around eight years old. After that, my poor social skills, non-existent math ability, recurrent stuttering and ADD-driven lack of focus kicked in full gear. It was not a winning formula and very frustrating to my parents who had seen such 'potential' in their son early on. Their disappointment was palpable and it left scars that still haunt me today. I don't want my kid to experience that kind of stress and pressure.

So yes, I am a basket case. I know it's only Kindergarten. I simply don't want this to be the first day where life starts to drain the joy from her spirit, one drop at a time. I want to hold on to the bright-eyed, optimistic ball of energy that makes me smile every single day.

While I was at work, I got a text message from Mrs. F. Not all good news.

My little one's first day was long and tiring and she didn't make friends as easily as she usually does. The light had dimmed a bit. But, she's a real trouper. No complaints, no whining and she's ready to go back and do it all over again.

She'll be fine. No one gets through childhood unscathed. I know this. I also know that she will always have people she can rely on when things get rough. The Spawn has a strong support system of family and loved ones who will keep her on the right track and love her unconditionally.

Yes, she will be fine.

The jury is still out on me, though...

Mock You Like A Hurricane

ITEM: So, the weather event known as Hurricane Irene has pretty much come and gone. Luckily, at Casa Carbonite, the damage was minimal. Many others along the East Coast weren't as fortunate. Irene had a very long reach and it seems that people either came through unscathed or were hit pretty badly. Millions of people are without power and the estimates of the devastation will undoubtedly run into the billions of dollars. While some complain about the media coverage being overblown(no pun intended), I am sure there are just as many who will spend the next few days picking up the pieces.

For my part, I spent an inordinate amount of time making light of the media's obsession with Hurricane Irene with a series of 'Updates' on Facebook. The response was pretty positive and I want to thank everyone who commented both on FB and in person. The intention, of course, was not to minimize the seriousness of the storm and it's effects. People who really know me understand that. It's an extension of my Level 4 HDM (Humor Defense Mechanism) and allows me to deal with the horrors and inequities of life.

There are worse things in the world than to be known for having a well-developed sense of humor. I worry that I become defined by it. A recent 'exercise' at work dealt with giving your co-workers a sincere compliment. Most of the comments dealt with work ethic, knowledge or dependability. The comments directed at me were generally about how funny I am. While I certainly appreciate that, it struck me as another example of how I can be stereotyped as 'the funny guy.' Is that what I want? I don't know. 

It's tempting to be 'on' all the time, to try to make people laugh constantly. You worry that if they knew the real you, they'd think you boring and unworthy of notice. Or worse...ordinary. 

To sum up: Being funny is better than being ignored. 

ITEM: Now, that I've depressed the hell out of you (and myself) I wish to remind those of you who are Facebook friends to participate in The Great Goatee Debate of 2011. I recently shaved off the dashing VanDyke I have sported since the mid-nineties (mostly to cover up the fact that I had no discernible chin to speak of).

Stare into the face of clean-shaven DOOM!

I have already traumatized my wife and child by surprising them with this new look, so now I need validation from people who have absolutely no real stake in my personal life!

If you wish to vote, please go here. I urge everyone to cast their vote because it's free and takes minimal physical effort. 

I thank you.

Once More Unto The Breach

Miss me? It's been a while. Like the sign says, "Please Pardon Our Dust. We Will Be Open During Renovations.' The floors may be a bit slippery and be sure to watch for those 'Wet Paint' signs.

What is 'My Carbonite Life?'  If you get the reference, you're in the right place. If not, simply consider it a metaphor for my constant struggle against ennui.

This blog started it's life as 'Rage Against The...' It was a way to jumpstart my brain after sinking into a rather nasty bout of depression. One that began after a terse job rejection from a certain fruit-related technology company.

When last I posted, I had begun a new journey into the murky, uncertain waters of gainful employment. At the same company that rejected my job apple-cation[sic] many months before.

'Full circle,' I thought. I'm a huge fan of symmetry.

That was six months ago. What's changed? Not much. Also, a whole lot. I'm still the same person I was. Except, I'm quite different.

So, where have I been? What have I been up to? How come 'fat chance' and 'slim chance' mean the same thing?

To answer these questions, let's hop in the DeLorean and go back to February. 2011. I was quite excited to be going back to work, especially for a company for which I have a tremendous about of respect and admiration. I was unsure of what to expect, having been out of the workforce for a couple of years. Oh, and not having been in any kind of retail environment since my first job as a teenager back in good old Wildwood, NJ. That was 1987. Yes, 1987. Ronald Reagan was President, the Chunnel began construction and The Simpsons first appeared on The Tracy Ullman Show. Some of you reading this weren't even born yet.

Jerks...!

During my first few weeks at my new job, I came to a few harsh realizations:

-I am not the smartest person in the room.
-I am not the most talented person in the room.
-I am not the best-looking person in the room. (okay, that one wasn't exactly a harsh realization)
-I am not the hardest-working person in the room.

On the plus side, however, I can be the funniest person in the room. So, I will take solace in that.

As for the actual job itself? I like going to work. That's huge. So many people hate their jobs, but can't see any way out from under them. I feel very fortunate to be in the position I find myself right here and now. 

I am surrounded by some pretty amazing (and irritatingly young/talented/attractive/smart) people and it can intimidating to say the least. It's not easy because I don't have the opportunity (or energy) to socialize outside of work, so it's difficult to establish any kind of lasting personal relationships. As with any prearranged group of people, there are those you like, those you tolerate and those you...well, you get the idea. Luckily, the latter is at a minimum.  My desperate need to be liked and accepted can get in the way of a real connection with someone and can even *GASP* be off-putting to some. That's just how it goes.  Only now, do I feel like I have carved out some tiny niche for myself. I may not be the brightest star in the sky, but I am at least visible on a clear night. If you squint.

So, the question is, do I need this forum now that I've got a live audience almost every day?

To use a phrase easily recognized by my co-workers; "I don't know. Let's find out."

...Worker Bee.

This marks my last posting as a SAHD*. As of 2/7/11, I will be again amongst the gainfully employed.

I'm not sure how I feel about that, to be perfectly honest.

I've spent the last year and a half sucking on the government teat (a.k.a. collecting unemployment insurance) while staying home to raise my young daughter. For the most part, it's been a terrific experience.  She's grown so much in the time I've been home with her. I love taking her to preschool and occasionally volunteering to be the teacher's assistant.** There, I am just another one of the Moms...only hairier and with slightly less makeup. There's dance class and swim class and trips to the library and Museum of Science. She loves it all.

Together we conquered diapers, pacifiers, fear of the dark and the big slide at the playground. And those were just my problems! *rimshot*

It's been the greatest time of my life watching her grow into this beautiful, funny and whip smart little girl. We make a great team, she and I. So, it's not without a little sadness and some serious soul-searching that I decided to get back into the workplace.

This begs the question: Why?

I don't exactly know. Money is one reason, although my financial contribution will be less than modest. Male ego? Not really. I'm pretty comfortable with not being the primary breadwinner in the household. Not bringing in any $$$, though is a bit emasculating. Factor in the desire to go someplace where I can talk to grownups during the day about things other than playdates, school fundraisers and who didn't invite whom to someone's kid's birthday party.
 
A job, though...?

A schedule, a time card, a boss and, the scariest part; dealing with OTHER PEOPLE???  I used to get panic attacks.  Bad ones, too.  Never had one while being at home with the Spawn.  Been feeling pretty anxious lately, I gotta say. Wife says that's normal when starting a new job.

I dunno. Can I get back into the life of a worker bee at my age? *checks liver spots*

Then, there's always the possibility it might be fun...

With me though, it's always been 'Hope for the best, but expect nuclear armageddon.' I intend to keep an open mind here. Just not so open that some stray seagull poops into my open cranium.

We. Shall. See.

When I found out that I got the job, I sat my daughter down and explained to her that Daddy was going back to work.  She paused for a moment and without missing a beat, she looked up at me and said, "But Daddy, who will take care of me?" That was immediately followed by the sound of my heart crashing to the ground.

I will miss my old job.  A lot.  The boss was really cool. Especially after she was potty trained.


*Stay-At-Home-Dad

**Shocking to anyone who knew me before I had a child. I am/was not a 'kid person.'

...MMXIne.

First of all, Happy New Year!  Or, as the Chinese refer to it; 'January 1st.'

A few random thoughts...

New Year's resolutions are a total crock. You are only setting yourself up for failure.  If you must have a resolution, make it easy like, "Next year I plan to drink some liquids and breathe regularly."

Not. Gonna. Happen.

Will people ever stop complaining that we still don't have flying cars and jetpacks?  I mean, really...people have enough trouble navigating in two dimensions.  Are we really ready for American drivers to be strapped to machines that can actually crash on to people's houses?  Not a sound plan. 

Want to complain about something?  Just look to BACK TO THE FUTURE, PART II.  Marty went from 1985 to 2015.  That's only four years away!  Are we any closer to HoverBoards, power-lace Nikes and self-sizing jackets?  Nope.  I really want to go to the Cafe 80's for a Pepsi Perfect.  Make it happen!

Another fine example of how movies lied to me.

My hillbilly neighbors are more than likely preparing a full-scale 'Shock and Awe' display of poor firearm safety when the clock strikes midnight.  I'm pretty sure I saw a truck of M9A1 Bazookas being unloaded on their front lawn.  Wonderful.

I have never liked New Year's Eve. More often than not, I had nowhere to go and no one to go there with.  It's almost as bad as Valentine's Day.  At least on V-Day, you're not expected to drink yourself into a vomit-choking stupor.  Just to eat enough candy to induce Type II Diabetes in a few hundred lab rats.

His day will not end well.

Living in New England, I will once again miss out on a wonderful tradition from my childhood;  The Mummers Parade.  I have many fond memories of sitting in front of the TV, watching the string bands and the fancy brigades strut down Broad Street in Philadelphia.  They have nothing similar in Boston except the annual 'Let's Light the Midget in the Leprechaun Suit on Fire and Watch Him Roll On the Ground' Parade.

No, it's not a Gay Pride parade, jerks!

It's natural to reflect on the past twelve months to try to find some greater meaning or insight.  But like any reflection, there are two sides.  There are highs and lows.  I expect much the same next year.  The best you can hope for is that you come out on the other side a little wiser if not worse for wear.  I've always been the type that hopes for the best, but expects the worst.  I don't know how well that attitude has served me over the years, but it's who I am.

I have always been able to define my life by decade.  I was a sheltered, withdrawn child in the 70's, an awkward, unsure teenager in the 80's, a young daydreamer blinded by false promises in the 90's.  I 'grew up' in the 00's, moved from the shiny and attractive, yet ultimately hollow facades of Las Vegas, got married and started a family. 

I have no earthly idea what changes, challenges and surprises this new decade will bring.  As I said before, I am not an optimist by any definition of the word.  For the sake of my daughter, however (who will be fourteen when 2021 rolls around), I will try to look ahead with my eyes wide open instead of behind a dim veil of cynicism. 

I will try...

...Tryptophan.

Chances are, if you are reading this on Thanksgiving Day, you are either eagerly awaiting the ritual gorging on domesticated game bird stuffed with glutinous matter or are suffering from a foodstuff-induced loginess.

Either way, welcome to my first-ever Thanksgiving blog post.  Now, many people will use this day to go over a boring litany of things for which they are most thankful.  Usually, that includes things like family friends, health, blah, blah, blah...

Not me.  Nossir.  I will use my virtual podium to lay out that which I am thankful I don't have.  Won't that be fun?

1. Male Pattern Baldness - It may seem a bit vainglorious, but I am so glad that I still have my hair. It may be getting grayer than Gandalf, but it's still on my head.

2. An Annoying Child - See, I don't like kids.  Never have.  Even when I was a kid, I preferred to hang out with adults. Probably a result of being an only child.  Kids were irksome little snot machines, always touching and breaking stuff.  I always thought I could do a better job of raising one.  And now, I have done it!  I have a perfect little treasure and...wait...I'll be right back.  My kid just poured Chinese hot mustard all over the cat.

3. Catholicism - I was baptized and confirmed a Catholic.  None of which, amazingly, was my decision.  I went to Catholic school. My parents were 'Cafeteria Catholics,' and we rarely attend chucrh except for the Big Three; Easter, Christmas and Palm Sunday.  We half-assed our way through Lent and never participated in any church-related activities.  That was fine with Young Tom, because the only thing I found more boring than Mass was going bra shopping with my Mom.

4.  I don't see dead people - Self-explanatory.

5.  A shrill harpy for a wife - I am extremely lucky that I am married to someone who does not yell, scream or otherwise cause the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end.  (Yes, she is standing right behind me at this moment.)

6. Salmonella - Not yet, anyway.  The day is young.

7. Dermatitis Herpetiformis - A rare, chronic, papulo-vesicular disease characterized by an intensely pruritic eruption consisting of various combinations of symmetrical, erythematous, papular, vesicular, or bullous lesions. Yuck.


8. Sanity - Debatable, yes...but, it's my mind and I can think what I want! So there!



What are YOU not thankful for?


I'd like to know...

...Dying of the Light, Part Deux.

Previously, on 'Rage Against The...'

Young Mr. Feeney, buoyed by phony Facebook-induced nostalgia, embarkes on an ill-fated journey back to his old hometown to recapture something he feels he may have lost in the ensuing years. 

Unfortunately, he has about the same chance of finding Bigfoot's baby teeth with a Handy Manny™ flashlight and a coke spoon.

And now, the conclusion...

Hotel room? Booked.

Car?  Oil changed and tank all gassed up.

Clothes, toiletries and assorted personal items?  Packed.

Sense of self-worth?  Grossly over-inflated.

Then, it's off I go!  Six hours and one large Dunkin Donuts iced coconut coffee with milk and two Splenda® later and I am in PA.

The lanes where I learned to bowl so poorly.

I decide to drive around my old stomping grounds to see what has changed and, most importantly, what hasn't.  The streets and houses are very much the same.  However, the terrible economy of the past few years has taken it's toll, as it has most everywhere.  The Clemens Supermarket is closed, the Lans-Bowl bowling lanes were destroyed by a fire.  Downtown has seen a lot of changes, most not for the better. I checked into the hotel...nice place.  It's right down the street from Merck Pharmaceuticals where my Dad worked for 44 years.  More déjà vu.  Must be a glitch in the Matrix. After an excellent pizza steak sandwich at Ray's, (Thanks for the recommendation, Chris!) I settle in for the night, still excited about the reunion.

The next morning is bright and crisp...a gorgeous fall day.  I have a plan for the morning; A visit to the Lansdale Historical Society.  Exciting, I know but if you want to relieve the past, you go where the past still lives and breathes.  I spend the morning poring through microfiche records of the local newspaper, the North Penn Reporter, looking for evidence of now non-existent childhood haunts.  More specifically, the movie theaters where I spent many a weekend.  In a small town in the seventies, no one cared if you left an eight-year-old child by themselves at the movies all afternoon.

A sketch of the old Lansdale Theatre that hangs proudly in my home.

 

I remember the first 'grown up' movie I got to see by myself, the 1977 disaster movie Rollercoaster, about a terrorist blowing up amusement park attractions. It featured a cool gimmick called Sensurround, which used low frequency sound waves to cause the seats to rumble every time the coasters were on the screen.  It scared the hell out of me.  Not the movie, mind you. Looming above me was a giant glass chandelier that dangled like the Sword of Damocles threatening to crash down on me at any moment. The chandelier* was part of the dangerous charms of the Lansdale Theatre, a decaying old Art Deco movie house, built in 1928.  The danger was apparently all too real for the theatre would have to be torn down in 1979.

After my acid trip down Memory Lane, I drove around some more, reliving good and simpler times I had spent with my folks.  I passed the house where my sister lives with her husband. We haven't spoken since our Dad passed away.  She doesn't know I'm married.  She doesn't know I'm a Dad.  She doesn't know our brother also passed away earlier this year.  I thought about contacting her, but I'm not sure what I would even say anymore. "Hey, it's me.  You remember...your brother Tom.  Yeah, long time I know.  Guess what?  Mike died earlier this year.  Oh, and while you're processing that, listen to this: before he died, he said he didn't want me to ever tell you. What's new with you?"


Yeah, I don't see that going well at all.

Bones!

Anyway, on to slightly less depressing things.  Like the pseudo-reunion!  Okay, let's set the stage here; I am appropriately manscaped and ready for a fun evening of hellos, how-are-yous, you-look-greats and a few where've-you-beens.  I get to the restaurant/bar promptly at 7:00pm.  It's a lively place called Bones, which makes no sense to me because there isn't one picture of DeForest Kelley to be found in the whole place (and believe me, I looked).  There were already a few people milling about the bar area.  I wasn't sure who they were because they all looked so damn old when I haven't changed one tiny little bit!  This couldn't be right.  I scanned the room like a Terminator looking for Sarah Connor, but instead only found a roiling sea of Male Pattern Baldness, beer bellies, bad perms and Covergirl foundation makeup.

Finally, I spotted a familiar face entering the room.  Mike Rosiak, a jovial fellow I remember from back in the day had arrived.  I am sure he would be the first to admit he is rather hard to miss.  He's a burly dude and stuck out like the Incredible Hulk at an albino midget convention.  He stopped my way for a bone-breaking handshake and then got swarmed by everyone else in the room.  "Okay" I thought. "One down, now let's see who else I remember."  Minutes passed.  Then hours.  Then weeks.  An equinox or two went by.  Not a peep.  I saw my reflection in the mirror behind the bar which confirmed that I had not suddenly turned invisible, so that explanation was out.  Guys were fake-hugging, women were screeching like the brakes of a freight train about to crush a school bus (why can't my metaphors ever be pleasant?) and there I sat, drowning alone in a sea of humanity.

I was pissed, to say the least.  Sure, I may have made matters worse by writing 'Batman' on my name tag, but come on! Speaking of swooping down and saving the day, I was eternally grateful when two of my non-high school friends came to the party specifically to see me.  Chris Badali, whom I have known since first grade and has always been a stand-up guy (even though he's now a blood sucking divorce attorney) and my former La Salle classmate Leo Hesser, who back then was kind of a cross between James Dean and Mick Jones of The Clash.  Too cool for school.  Still is, bless 'im.  So, there we were...a trio of geezers-in-training, reminiscing and talking trash about everyone else in the room. 

L-to-R; Leo Hesser, Tom Feeney, Christian Badali (a.k.a The LensCrafters Trio)

Now, that was more like it.

Oh, there was someone else who recognized me.  Back in my junior year, there was this one girl who sat in the row next to me in French class.  Cute as a button and sweet as a Pixie Stick, she was one of the intense, yet fleeting crushes I had back then.  She looked at me once, then once again.  The light of recognition flashed in her Keane-esque eyes and she approached me.  She didn't remember my name (she probably figured out right away it wasn't Batman), but I remembered hers.  I got a nice hug and she held my face in her hands and smiled.  A minor validation, but it was enough for me.  Then, she introduced me to her 24 -year-old daughter.  Yikes.  A Freaky Friday moment if ever there was one.

My friends and I hung out for a little while longer, then we retired to another, slightly less crowded and noisy bar for a final drink before saying our goodbyes.  All in all, not a terrible evening.  I'm sorry there were a few people I missed seeing, but there's always tomorrow. 

There I go again, proving my legendary pessimism to be a sham worthy of old Professor Marvel himself.

The next morning I checked out of the hotel and made my way back home. The home I made with my wife and daughter.  The place where I really belong.

On my way out of town, I heard WMMR play All You Zombies by The Hooters.  "Couldn't have written a better ending myself," I thought.





*That same chandelier is now hanging in a theatre in Oregon. Nice to know it survived and is now frightening new generations of kids!

...Dying of the Light.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned...It's been over a month since my last blog post. 

It's not that I haven't had anything to say.  No, that's not it.  I suppose I could blame it on not having the time to sit down and collect my thoughts.  That would be untrue.  I may chalk it up to simply not having anything I felt was worthy of a lengthy dissertation.

That all changed this past weekend.  Now, before I begin this emotional autopsy on myself, a brief history lesson is in order;

The tiny townhouse where I grew up.

My family moved to the town of Lansdale, PA in 1973.  Lansdale existed in a kind of buffer zone between the Philly suburbs and rural farmland.  Beautiful area and a great place for a kid to grow up.  I was five years old when we moved and about to start first grade. I skipped Kindergarten, because my parents had me in a Montessori pre-school program.  I later found out that Montessori is really a front organization operated by Rosicrucians to indoctrinate potential acolytes.*

Byrne Hall at GMA, where I attended grade school.

I attended Gwynedd-Mercy Academy from grades 1-8.  A private Catholic school, GMA was best remembered (by me) as being a place where young, knobby-kneed boys were cruelly forced to wear grey short pants in twenty degree weather. It was there I learned about such Catholic traditions as Transubstantiation, a.k.a. Ritualistic Cannibalism.  I peaked academically in fourth grade.  After that, my ADD kicked in and it was all downhill from there.

WWJD?

I did manage to get into a really good high school; La Salle College High School.  I believe the recruitment pamphlet described La Salle as a 'Catholic, All-Boys College Preparatory School and Nazi Larvae Death Camp' or something like that.  It was run by the Christian Brothers.  An odd name, I felt because they never seemed to me to act very Christ-like or very brotherly (I chalked it up to all that brandy they drank).  I hated every waking moment.  It was an hour bus ride into Philadelphia from Lansdale and the bus was too big to climb up the steep hill to get to the school.  Be it rain, sleet or snow, we had to trudge up that goddam hill every morning.  Not the best way to start the day.  I was a short, stocky, unathletic nerd who didn't fit in anywhere. By the end of my sophomore year, I was seriously contemplating suicide. No joke.

During the following summer, we received a letter from La Salle suggesting to my parents that I would be better off attending a different school.  I agreed, but the alternative was even more frightening...North Penn.  A public school.  I thought I would be eaten alive.  My impression of public school could be summed up in one word: Prison.  There had to be a good reason why the school was nicknamed 'North Penetentiary.'  NPHS was a massive, Pentagon-like facility with over a thousand students wandering it's many winding corridors.  It took a while for me to get comfortable there, but once it did, I embraced the diversity I found. Imagine it...there were kids of different backgrounds, poor kids, Jewish kids, kids who climb on rocks (oops, went into Armour Hot Dog mode there).  Oh, and most importantly; Girls! Yes, those mysterious, maddening creatures whose only reason for existing was to confound and frustrate me at every turn. 

Senior Prom. Yikes. I look like the 'Bad Humor Man.'

If they gave out class awards for 'Most Likely to Worship a Girl From Afar,' I would've been a shoo-in.  I realized that my well-developed HDS (Humor Defense System) coupled with being a 'nice guy' inevitably led me to permanent 'friend' status among the girls in my social circle.  It didn't help that I was also deathly afraid of what would happen if any girl did show interest.  What the hell would I do then?  I was clueless. 

Senior year was better.  I had carved out my own little niche with some really great friends and made it out of school with my sanity intact.  The week after I graduated in 1985, my parents and I moved to Wildwood, New Jersey.  Some of my adventures there have been chronicled here.

I left Lansdale behind.  For a while.  I returned briefly in 1988, but I will spare you the sordid details of that rollercoaster of despair.  For now.

Since my sojourn to Las Vegas in 1989, I returned to the inviting confines of Montgomery County only once, for a single day, back in 2000.  A familiar blur, it was like looking at a swiftly shifting home movie through the windshield of a car.  No time for reflection or regret.  Maybe it's better than way.

A few weeks ago, the technological miracle/time-waster/Satan's Screwdriver called Facebook afforded me an opportunity to finally go back to my hometown to ride the wave of nostalgia that's been nagging at me since I've reconnected with so many old friends and acquaintances from those days.  An informal event was being planned where members of the graduating NPHS classes from '80-'90 were to gather.  I hemmed and hawed, not actually making the decision to go until the week of the event.

How bad could it be, right?  Right...?

I had no idea.  Looking back, I should have known.  All the signs were there in bright, screaming neon, but I chose to ignore them.  I rushed headlong, looking directly into the abyss.  It didn't even bother to look back.

TOMORROW: Part Two of "You Can't Go Home Again" or "West Point Blank."







*I can not prove this 'fact,' because all pertinent records were erased by a cadre of Illuminati techno-ninjas working under direct orders from the still-living (though disembodied) brain of Pope Innocent XII.

...Mujahideen.

On this, the anniversary of the terrorist attacks that destroyed the World Trade Center and damaged the Pentagon, the thoughts of all Americans turn to those who lost their lives during that horrible day.

Everyone has a story about where they were or what they were doing that day.

This is mine;

I was living in Las Vegas and working for a company that assisted elderly patients in obtaining their pharmaceuticals.  I had just started working the early morning shift and arrived at my work at 5:00am PST, less than an hour before the attacks began. Shortly after the first plane hit the North Tower, one of my co-workers, who was listening to a portable radio, was relaying information to the rest of us.  After the second plane hit, everyone just knew there was something horribly wrong happening. 

My wife, Carolyn and I were in a long-distance relationship at the time.  She was in NYC with her mom and sister that day.  They were out in front of the TODAY show studio at NBC when the first reports of the attack came in.  This, of course would have made me a nervous wreck...if I had remembered that she was in New York that day.  I didn't remember (which is something my wife loves to point out, BTW!).  I am almost glad that I didn't remember.  I was worried about another loved one.

Back in 2001, my brother Michael worked for the U.S. Government as a computer security consultant. He had served many years in the Navy and also as a Marine. He had just moved into his new offices...in the Pentagon.  That, I remembered.  At 9:37am EST, American Airlines Flight 77 crashed into the western side of the Pentagon, killing 184 people.  For the entire day, I tried to contact my brother, fearing the worst.  Eventually, I found out that he was in an adjacent building at the time of the crash.  My future wife managed to drive like a bat out of hell (or out of NYC as it were) just before they closed the bridges.  She called me, thinking I'd be worried sick about her.  Um...

It was a harrowing day for everyone.  But, the days that followed were, for me, even worse.  On September 12, my mother suffered a stroke during a routine medical procedure.  I dropped her off at the hospital for a test where they inject dye into your bloodstream to try and detect any blockages.  During the test, a piece of a arterial plaque dislodged and traveled into her brain, causing a stroke.  When I got back to the hospital, I found out my mother had lost the ability to speak.  I remember her writing something on a piece of paper and giving it to me.  It said 'I love you.'

Over the next week, I watched coverage of the aftermath of the attacks from a hospital room while my mother recovered from the stroke.  Her speech began to improve although she had trouble finding the right words to convey her thoughts.  It's a condition called aphasia.  Soon, she came home and all signs pointed to her being okay.  She was put on a blood-thinning medication to prevent any other possible blockages from occurring.  One month later, on October 12, my mother complained she was having a migraine.  It got progressively worse and eventually, she was taken by ambulance, back to the hospital.  Before she got into the ambulance, I remember she wanted me to make sure that I took care of her purse.  It was the last time I would ever speak to my mother.  Less than 24 hours later, I made the toughest decision of my life...I had to have my mom taken off life support.

She suffered a massive brain hemorrhage that could not be controlled due to the blood thinners she had been taking.  There was no chance of recovery.  The doctors told me that there was no chance my mother would regain consciousness.  I said my goodbyes, held her hand and watched as she slowly passed. 

I was so grateful that Carolyn flew out immediately to be by my side during that time.  She was a tremendous source of strength and support for me then and, of course now.  Those weeks are little more than a blur to me now.  I feel oddly detached from the national events of that day and the weeks that followed.  I was dealing with a personal tragedy at the time. 

So, no...I will never forget.

...Run-D.M.C.

What the ƒµ©√ happened to Rap music?

Like most folks (and by 'folks,' I am referring to white, middle-class 80's teens living in the suburbs), my first real exposure to Rap music was Licensed To Ill (1986) by the Beastie Boys.  Sure, I'd heard Rap before then*, but it was something that was pretty much off my musical radar.  Think about it.  MTV never played music by black artists until Michael Jackson** broke through with Thriller (1984), so many kids back then weren't exposed to anything but the most sanitized of popular music.  This explains the popularity of artists like Duran Duran and Journey.

I dare you to buy this shirt and wear it in public.

It was easy in those days to dismiss Rap as some kind of novelty music fad like 'Disco' or 'Love Songs.'  It wasn't until much later that I began to appreciate the genuine talents of acts like Public Enemy, Cypress Hill, Onyx, Ice-T, Geto Boys, etc.  Sure, Sturgeon's Law dictates that most of it is garbage, *cough-Vanilla Ice-cough* but the good stuff is really, really good.

Above: Urban Carnivorous Mammal

Where was I going with this?  Oh, yeah...earlier, as I was getting my daughter ready for a fun-filled morning of getting sand all over herself at the park, a show came on Discovery Kids called Hip Hop Harry.  For those unfamiliar with this abomination, it's a show featuring someone in a yellow bear suit with baggy pants and a gold chain so big that it could sink both Mr. T and Flavor Flav at the bottom of the Hudson River.  Kinda like Barney's half-brother who lives wit his moms in da hood. Harry and his junior posse sing, dance and learn valuable life lessons.  I tell ya, there's nothing like watching 8 year-olds of indeterminate ethnic origin kickin' it grade skool-style.

Hmmm. I wonder what turned thi$ guy...

Yes, it's as inane as you think.  What's next?  The Notorious A.B.C. Variety Hour? Snoop Dog Pufnstuf?  It saddens me to see yet another authentic American art form marginalized, sanitized, packaged and spoon-fed to our kids just because it's there to be exploited.  What's even worse, even Rap's best of the best have grown up, sold out and cleaned up.  Yes, I am looking at you, Ice Cube!

...into thi$$$ guy?

Now, I realize I have no business faulting anyone for digging themselves out of a terrible situation and becoming successful. Especially when I can't relate in any meaningful way to being a part of that culture.  But to shamelessly exploit a genuinely powerful and endlessly fascinating art form by dressing a glorified teddy bear like a gangsta is the worst kind of cultural pandering.

Of course, my four year-old loved it.  Just wait until I let her listen to my copy of It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back.

Kurtis Blow Presents The History Of Rap











*Most likely Blondie's Rapture (1981) was the first Rap song I ever heard, but even thirty years later I'm still not sure that song actually counts.

**TRIVIA- Interestingly, the Late 'King of Pop' was born African-American, but was later converted to Caucasian!  He accomplished this amazing feat by sleeping in a specially-constructed 'whitening chamber' invented by Pat Boone.

...Green Bean Amandine.

I hate weddings. Let me just get that out of the way up front. Hate them. Not the institution itself, mind you. Not even the actual matrimonial ceremony. Mostly, it's the wedding reception that irritates me to the point of physical nausea.

Before we begin our nightmarish journey together, Dear Reader, a brief disclaimer: The following blog contains scenes of extreme snarkiness. Any depections of living persons is meant for humorous intent only. In other words, it's all meant in good fun.

Like a snow globe, marriage is beautiful, fragile and requires periodic dusting.

My wife and I went to a wedding over the weekend. I barely know the bride, but my wife is friends/co-workers with the bride's mother. We got invited, so we just had to go.  I was able to convince my wife to skip the church ceremony and just head right to the reception because I have a severe allergic reaction to communion wafers.

This turned out to be a huge mistake because, as we found out later, the priest collapsed during the ceremony and had to be taken from the church in an ambulance. I totally missed my shot at future YouTube notoriety.*

"Look, Mommy! Douchebags!"

We get to the reception early, which is totally awesome because the few people who are already there are total strangers. So, we find a nice quiet spot to sit and make fun of what the other people are wearing. You know, like douchebaggy sunglasses or dresses that are way too tight to be considered appropriate. 

There were some pre-reception snacks available. I recall the store-bought crackers, the Bowl'O'Grapes and the cheese plate (actually a plate of kind of white-ish cheese cubes). I thought at first they might have been some kind of pepper cheese. Then, I noticed the flies that kept landing on the plate. Not pepper. Moving on...

There was a bar. Not an open bar, of course. That would be money better spent on the aforementioned elaborate hors d'oeuvres table. As more guests began to arrive, we entered the Generic Reception Hall.** We each received a smell token of appreciation from the happy couple; a CD of music from the festivities. If I had only known of the sonic horrors to come...

AHHH! Red vest! Kill it before it breeds!

The first clue that there was trouble afoot was when I noticed that the DJ was wearing a red vest. A. Red. Vest. Who wears red vests? As far as I can tell, only riverboat gamblers, Christmas elves and members of barbershop quartets. This guy was no mere DJ, however. He was also an V-O-C-A-L-I-S-T. Aside from his tone deaf versions of such timeless classics as Elton John's Your Song and Billy Joel's Always A Woman, he proceeded to play a litany of trite, cliché wedding songs that should be forever banned from all events, be it wedding-related or not.

These abominations to the human ear canal include:

• Celebration - Kool and the Gang (This used to be a good song once. Once.)
• We Are Family - Sister Sledge (Really? We are? Had no idea!)
• I Will Survive - Gloria Gaynor (Hmmmm...a cheating song at a wedding. How odd.)
• Macarena - Los Del Rio (When will this abomination against humanity finally die?)
• YMCA - Village People (This is why Prop. 8 got voted down.)
• Cha Cha Slide - Mr. C (The best way for people who can't dance to really show it.)

Dude!

The food was standard wedding fare. Choices included a ham-based product or pressed turkey with faux-tatoes and yes, Green Bean Amandine. I choked down as much as my surgically-altered stomach could handle and washed it down with a $6.25 White Russian that was more watered-down than the Punjab province. About the time the bride and groom smashed wedding cake into each others' faces, I was ready to flee from the room like a Triathlete on fire.

Finally, I was able to convince my wife that it was time to leave. I made a good case, I felt, for exiting a little early. We had both been up pretty early that morning, and the following day promised to be quite busy as well. Oh, and I also held a pretty nasty-looking butter knife to my throat and threatened to give myself a Colombian Necktie if my demands were not met.

During the drive home, I found myself thinking about the old chestnut about your wedding day being the happiest day of your life. I hope for them, it was. They are a lovely couple and, as all newlyweds do, they deserve every chance to be happy.

FYI: My own wedding was pretty freakin' awesome. Just talk to anyone who was there. Ask them about the cool boat ride to the private island, the steel drums, the wild animal who ate the bouquet or the plentiful grilled lobsters they ate. Green beans, indeed!

I got married here. Your jaw may remain agape for 10 full seconds.

*As of this writing, I have no idea what happened to the priest in question. I certainly hope that he will be just fine and fully recovered in time for his trial. (just kidding!)

** Not it's real name. ;-)