Showing posts from 2016

Xmas Death Metal

Xmas Eve, sometime in the ‘90s
Xmas Death Metal It’s again that time of year where thoughts of suicide, I mean sugarplums, dance in one’s head. I usually publish an account of a poignant or memorable family holiday event. This year is no different. I started playing the guitar when I was in middle school and was teased relentlessly by my brothers about it. My brother, let’s call him Thurston, was the meanest pertaining to my initial year of learning the axe. The first song I learned was Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. Thurston promptly added to the lyrics, “Eric can’t play the damn guitar.” Dick. He would soon regret those words. Fast forward a few years, I would enlist a couple of my brothers in recording sessions as singing talent. I use the word “talent” very loosely. Thurston was my go-to front man. He’d belt out classics, like Winger’s Madalaine, like he was channeling old Kip himself. Like many up-and-coming rock stars, we were forced by the record label to put out Christmas song…

The Fall

It has been raining for about a week straight. It’s cold and damp. It reminds me of home. There’s a comforting smell about it. The open patio door that leads to my bleak concrete balcony lets a sweet fragrant air waft in from the trees. It reminds me of apple picking in New York. The way the midday autumn sun cooks the fallen apples on the grass has a distinct smell. Apple picking has evolved over the years from a simple outing of just plucking your own bushel, to expensive and crowded family hell-fests. I’ve attended many of these apple picking outings with my children, because that’s what you do. These are my fondest memories of them growing up. The sticky hands from the candy apples. Petting zoos, and getting hopelessly lost in a satanic corn maze. Even my 4 yr old son getting scared out of his mind by screaming hysterical teenage girls in a haunted house. I wouldn't trade these memories for anything in the world.

Half-Assed Wins the Day

I admit it, I do things half-assed. It doesn’t bother me. It bothered my ex-wife though. Half-assed was her pet name for me. Nothing I did was full-assed to her. Oh, I tried. Home projects were the worst. There was always an extra hole in the wall, or a shelf that wasn’t perfectly level. Life is not perfect. So what if shit slides off of a shelf?

Nothing brought out her wrath more than the weekly mowing of the lawn. You know how most men take pride in their grass and general backyard areas? Yeah, that’s not really me. Nothing was more Bataan Death March to me than mowing the back forty. We had just enough yard to be annoying. I did have a nice Toro mower, but it was the recycling kind. You couldn’t wait too long to cut the grass or it would clog and stall. Forget about it if the grass was wet.

The wife, let’s call her Chrissy, had some weird utopian baseball-field level of what the average American lawn should look like. Whether parallel, crisscross or diagonals, the lines had to be …