Tony Soprano and His Psychiatrist

This is so true:




The same thing could be said about some of the posts I have written since I started this blog.

Home Alone (Divorced for the Holidaze)

It's no biggee anymore. I left my family in RI in January of 1985. The year before was probably the last holiday season that was any where near normal for me, except for perhaps 1 or 2 during the early part of my marriage. I left in a cocaine haze, lived in my van for several months, and have spent the rest of my life trying to attain some semblance of a normal life: family, kids, half decent career, some success in some interest, hobby, or sport. There have been several fleeting moments where I thought I might be getting close at some, just never got the cigar. I've also spent more time looking for jobs, homes, housemates, and significant others, and putting out fires than I care to think about, much more than any person should ever have to in one's lifetime.

I was married for 3 years when we split. Sierra had just turned 3 about a month earlier and doesn't really remember us ever being together. We also knew going into that last season that I would be moving out shortly afterwards, we only delayed it for Sierra's sake.

My brother and sister-in-law moved to California about two years later. While we have spent some of the holidays together, most of the time Sierra would spend those days and their eves at her mom's house. I was always welcome to come over, but don't forget that my ex-mother-in-law and ex-sister-in-law are fucking assholes from Hades. We were always civil towards each other, but because of our tumultuous relationships, those days were always fraught with some tension.

So I would kick back at home, and enjoy the extra day of sleeping late. As the years passed on, those extra days of sleeping late became more precious. I savored not having any responsibilities for one more day. I got used to it. I found out this past year just exactly why I needed them.

The original meaning of Christmas has been totally lost on this generation of instant gratification. It is all about who has the biggest light display! If sales are off from the previous year, the holidays are a disaster! Oh financial woe! Buy! Buy! Buy! If you don't, you're not doing your civic duty! Let's get drunk and screw* at the office party! (These days, I'll skip the gettin' drunk part and cut right to the chase.)

Maybe getting laid off 2 days before Sierra's birthday and 2 weeks before Christmas one year had something to do with this indifference? Is it any wonder some don't give an R.A. about 'holidays'?

As mentioned in an earlier post, for years I felt that missed social and employment opportunities fueled my depression, when only recently have I begun to consider that perhaps my depression hindered me from obtaining those goals. I've spent a lot of time alone over the years because of this, and not just at this time of the year. It may sound sad, but like I said, you get used to it, especially if you need it. (Please- no pity, no tears, no wailing or gnashing of teeth. I'm good with it. Really.)

Sierra is at her mom's house this year. It's raining and cold outside tonight, but I'm dry, fed, medicated, and warm (enough.)

Sometimes you just get one raw deal after another, and maybe just once in a while, just maybe, you get a pair.... you get used to it.

*Jimmy Buffett

2012 (A Short Story)

It is September of 2012. The Red Sox have been dominating the AL East since 2004, having won 5 of the last 8 World Series by an astounding margin of 20 games to 6, and setting a new Major League Record for most wins in the regular season in 2010 along the way. Terry Francona has been a brilliant manager and has been receiving all star performances from Pedroia, Youk, Bay, Ellsbury, Papelbon, Beckett, and Dice-K. Even Wakefield is still throwing that screwy knuckleball and doing it well! He's 46 years old, but Hoyt Wilhem and Wilbur Wood both pitched into their late 40's, and Satchel Paige pitched until he was 53, so why not Wake? He still gets 175+ innings per season and 4.20 has been his highest ERA since 2007.

And Lester! Jon Lester! His fairy tale continues as if he's living in some parallel universe. He has been dominating the Junior Circuit like no other lefty since Randy Johnson was in Seattle. He has become the ace of the staff, not an easy thing to do with a staff that includes All-Stars and Cy Young winners Beckett and Dice-K. He's won no less than 18 games in each season since 2009 and lost no more than 9 in that same time span. He's struck out at least 175 batters and has had an ERA no higher than 3.15, a remarkable feat considering that Fenway is a difficult park for southpaws, to say the least. He has 9 shoutouts and 2 no-hitters since 2008, and a Cy Young Award of his own last year. He even made it into the 7th inning with a perfect game going on that was broken up by a cheap infield hit that was questionable to all but the 1st base umpire whose view of the play was somewhat obstructed. Tito racked up yet another early exit that day arguing Lester's case, but to no avail. This has been a Red Sox dynasty even more impressive than their run in the early 20th century when that team won 5 World Series in 15 years before the infamous, but almost now forgotten sale of Ruth to the formerly despised Yankees.

The Yankees on the other hand....

Ah, yes, the Yankees. The once great and proud Yankees had fallen on hard times. After completely missing the playoffs in 2008 for the first time since 1994, Hank Steinbrenner continued to screw up the club so badly into 2009, that their (remaining) fans were calling for his head on a stick! Even Joba Chamberlain, the poster child of the new generation of Yankee's was disgracing the once venerable franchise with his many notable trips to the stripper clubs and DUI's, as well as his continued harassment of Kevin Youkilis which finally earned him a fine and suspension. The Evil Empire had been destroyed by the Rebel Red Sox so badly that Steinbrenner finally said, 'Fuck this shit', sold the team, and went back to his horse ranch much to the delight of Yankee fans in the tri-state area, thus ending the Steinbrenner years in disgrace. The new owners immediately set about to right the ship. They hired a brilliant GM to replace Cashman and immediately made several 'Fuckin' A' trades, as Billy Beane called them (trades that when other GM's hear of, they say, 'Fuckin' A!') Working the off season trading market like the stock market, they loaded up with top draft picks and top prospects for 2011. They cut loose all the old and overpaid stars: Damon, Matsui, Abreu, and Petitte. They cut loose all the over-priced candy that Hank went out and bought after missing the playoffs in 2008, including Manny Ramirez, who missed most of 2010 and 2011 with injuries after Hank washed his feet and then gave him $90 million. The Yankees were still stuck with some of the old guard from the 1995-2000 dynasty, the ones who King George bowed down to and lavished with contracts back in 2007: Old Man Jeter, and Mr. Controversy, A-Rod (Posada and Rivera had finally hung up their spikes in 2011.) One thing was certain about A-Rod, barring injury or unforeseen circumstance; he would hit more than 800 home runs by the time he was done with his career. The Yankees lost 92 games in in 2009, but with the new owners making immediate changes in the way the whole company was run and not just the approach to fielding and managing the team, they fared much better in 2010, winning 80 and losing 82, and continued to improve in 2011, but slowly, winning 82 and losing 80. But 2012 was different. The draft picks and the farm system had finally produced some bona fide major leaguers who were primed for breakout seasons in 2012, comparable to the Papelbon- Youkilis- Pedroia- Ellsbury- Lowrie- Lester breakout years. No one really thought that they were a legitimate challenge to the Sox, but winning 90 games was a real possibility this year.

The Sox had developed a model farm system and had handfuls of major league quality studs in Pawtucket just chomping at the bit to get a taste of the big show. 2012 brought a slew of injuries to the team, but they continued to win, although with not quite as much authority as the year before. The Sox were on a pace to win 95 games this year despite the injuries, but the whole AL East had become the strongest division in the major's. Even Baltimore was a contender. In 2011, all 5 teams finished at .500 or better. The Yankees had been having a superb year for the young team and were only 2 games behind the Sox heading into the final series of the season for both teams. It seemed as if every season the Yanks and the Sox played each other on the last weekend. It wasn't of course, but it just seemed like it. Sox fans were delighted that after looking up at the Yanks for all those painful 86+ years, that the tide had turned and the Sox were enjoying their dynasty. Coming into the final 3 game series of the year, the Yankees were hot, winning 10 of their last 12 and were only 2 games behind the 1st place Sox. A-Rod had finally gotten his shit together and started producing when it mattered. The Sox had been playing well and only needed to win 1 of the final 3 games to clinch the division. With Beckett, Dice-K, and Lester scheduled to pitch the final 3 games at Fenway, it seemed that the Sox had a virtual lock on the division title. Beckett and Dice-K were superb! Unfortunately, the young Yankee pitchers were 1 run better as the Sox lost 1-0 and 2-1. It was the first time in over 200 games that the Sox had been shut out! An eery, unsettling discomfort fell over Red Sox Nation that hadn't been felt since 2004. But not to worry- Jon Lester would be pitching the finale. Lester had been having yet another career year: 24-6, 2.92, 209 K's, 0.98 WHIP, but there was one batter in the whole American League who seemed to have figured him out: A-Rod. While his numbers against Lester weren't outstanding, he did have more success against him than anyone else in the league.

It is now the top of the 9th inning and the Yankees have 2 outs. The Sox are up 4-3, Lester is spinning another gem, but he walks Jeter after an 8 pitch battle, the last one barely an inch off the plate, or so it seemed. Although A-Rod has had some success against Lester this year, he had been baffled by Lester all day this day. Lester had another great game going with a low pitch count, so Tito decided to leave him in, as A-Rod had been having marginal success with Pap this year, as well.

0-1 ->

1-1 (barely) ->

1-2 ->

1-2 (foul) ->

1-2 (foul) ->

1-2 (foul) ->

2-2 ->

2-2 (foul) ->

2-2 (foul) ->

3-2 ->

3-2 (foul) ->

Finally on the 12th pitch of the at-bat, 2 outs, full count, go ahead run at the plate..... SWING!

CRACK!

Oh shit!

Back, back, back, back...

Just like the old days between the Yanks and the Sox!

Preface

I was laying in bed late one night last summer reading "Joe DiMaggio- The Hero's Life", when all of a sudden, I put the book down, picked up my notebook and pen and started writing. I kept on writing and didn't stop until I had filled up about 6 pages. What follows is almost exactly what I wrote that night. Certain events since then have sent me back to the drawing board to tweak it a bit, but otherwise very few changes have been made. This is a story (fantasy, really) that just that flowed out of me with literally no effort at all. This is my first attempt at writing fiction.

Lawyers, Guns, and Money

Yesterday was good, but today sucks. Well, mostly. SSA has been approved, but Medi-Care won't kick in for another 2 years. Went to the temp agency that placed me at UCCR almost 6 years ago. They seemed happy to be able to help me (and I, them) again. Scheduled an appointment with Dr. G. for January 5. Since I received my last SDI check today, and I do not expect any $$$ from SSA until later in the month, I think I will be able to qualify for Medi-Cal for a small window. But Dr. C. doesn't take Medi-Cal, she almost didn't sign the EDD form for supplemental SDI. But she will be working at a clinic that does take Medi-Cal, so I called it. Never heard of her. Went back in to her office. "Oh, she starts later today. Try calling them back tomorrow." Kelly (the barrister) finally returned my call and reaffirmed that Medi-Care does not kick in for 2 more years. (I'll be dead by then if I don't get to see my doctors. I also won't be able to afford my meds, either, probably contributing to my early demise.) I went to SSA to give them a copy of Sierra's birth certificate (I thought I had done that already?) when I discovered that I can appeal the date of disability onset without affecting any of the financial benefits. Now why didn't Kelly know about that? Fucking lawyers. Finally sold the Winnie the Pooh sheets. Not much, but every bit counts. (If only everything I've tried to sell recently sold on the first post for the original asking price, I'd be much better off financially right now.) My BP is skyrocketing again. Sierra called. She forgot her keys again and had to break into the house.

Sigh.

Up, down, up, down, up, down, ad nauseum.

Oh yeah, guns. That GD Son of a Bush in the White House just overturned a ban on carrying concealed firearms in National Parks. Talk about a golden GFY on your way out.

Approved!

I got the letter today! "You are entitled to monthly disability benefits.... We found that you became disabled under our rules...."

WOO HOO!!!!

It's still hasn't completely sunk in yet, as they have one dollar amount on one page and a different amount on another page, no mention of Medi-Care in this letter, but I will be going down to the SSA office tomorrow to get more clarification.

It feels like I just took off a lead vest. Maybe now I can get on with the rest of my life, (whatever that may bring.)

Soon Come Good News?

Last week I walked into the local SSA office (partly because I'm bored stiff) to check on the status of my Medi-Care app. I couldn't see the monitor he was looking at, but he said' "Oh. Good news." Then he turned the conversation in a different direction about where (physically) my application was and started talking ambiguously. He didn't tell me that my app had been approved, but I left with a feeling that my app had been approved, and due to gummint boorockrasee, he was not the proper boorowcrat to inform me of the decision. Just a gut feeling, that's all. I went into a free (almost) clinic (will probably get boiled for the visit anyhow), and got another scrip I can't afford. I had filled out some papers to allow my regular physician to release my records to this clinic. My PCP office called me in regards to one item in their records, and during the course of that phone conversation, I was informed that the good doc actually took time to write a personal letter to SSA saying that this guy is messed up and needs to be accepted into the program! WOOHOO! Thank you Dr. G!!!!!!

So, soon come good news?

Tobacco Sucks, big time

My grandfather died of emphysema when he was 72 yo. Before he died, he used to take my oldest brother around to all the rental properties we used to own and showed him how to do anything with tools. My brother could build a house from scratch, I'm sure. And he learned to smoke tobacco from him, too.

My brother and I used to go to water ski tournaments every weekend in the summer and his 1st wife and I and a few others would train during the week. He moved to TN with his family, I moved to CA. Neither of us are involved in organized water skiing any longer. Moving to a red state corrupted his political compass, as we are now on opposite sides of the political spectrum. But he's still my brother.

I got word last night that he has lung cancer and has about 2 to 4 months to live. I cried for about an hour last night. If you'll excuse me, I need to find a way to get to TN soon. I also have to renew my crusade against tobacco.

Could someone please explain why tobacco is legal and marijuana is not?

Dark Side of the Moonshine

Sometimes a good piece of music is all it takes to lift your spirits! I had heard of these guys performing my favorite work of all time, 'Dark Side of the Moon' by Pink Floyd. I listened to this 3 times and would have a 4th if it hadn't been so late!

Here's Poor Man's Whiskey performing their 'alternative' version:

'Dark Side of the Moonshine.'

Enjoy!

http://www.archive.org/details/pmw2007-05-08.pmw2007-05-08.flac

That Angels Post?

It's coming soon!

My Father is a Yankee Fan

Despite growing up about 50 miles southwest of Fenway Park, my father is a Yankee fan. (Hmmmmm..... maybe that's why we never went to many Sox games!) He was born in 1918 and missed the 1st Sox Dynasty of 1903-1918. By the time he was a young boy playing sandlot ball, it was Yankees this, and Yankees that, and Babe Ruth hitting 60 HR’s! He played 2B for his high school team and hit about .285. He wanted to keep playing, but his father wouldn’t let him play during his senior year. (Oh, was the coach pissed off!) The Great Depression was still a recent memory, and he was needed to work in the family business, thus ending any potential career in baseball. (The broken leg didn’t help, either.)

But this post isn’t about baseball.

My father served in the Army (Ozark 102nd Division) in WWII in France and Germany. He was a Lieutenant, and was promoted to Captain upon his discharge. He’s not a doctor, but because of his degree, he was the adjunct to the Captain in his medical unit. I recall seeing some of the schwag he brought back from Europe when I was young, including a parachute, a Nazi flag, and maybe even his side arm, but I have no idea what happened to any of that. (I do have his baseball bat, though.) Maybe it was the broken leg that kept him from the front lines, but I can only imagine that he must have seen some horrific injuries serving in a medical unit. He never spoke much about his time in the Army when I was younger, never even suggested that I serve, most likely due to what he witnessed while there. (The draft was over before I was 18.)

A couple of years ago, he finally opened up a bit and started to talk a little bit about his time in the military. I told him that he should write all this down. Well, he finally did start writing, and just recently gave me the book for me to blog it to the rest of the family. I have not read it yet.

While I am very left leaning, I never went to any ant-Viet Nam war protests. I never spit upon or disrespected any of the returning soldiers in any way. I never served in the military, but I never was much into socio-economics and politics when I was a teenager. Hell, for all I know, I may not have even been tall enough to qualify. While I may question the administrations and the policies that put our great (but not perfect) country in war, I harbor no resentment nor disrespect towards the men and women who have been sent there, as well as the ones who are in the military, but have not had to endure that hell.

My band mate and best friend served in The Marines in Viet Nam. He came back OK. My ex-father-in-law served in the Coast Guard in Nam and saw his best friends face blow up in front of him. He’s messed up. I even have a Sawxheads ‘friend’ whom I have yet to meet in person (but will soon!) who was in The Marines.

So what is the point of this blog? Respect Veterans. After all that they have been through, they get pitiful health care when they get back here. I see it with my father and my band mate. They fought so that I can write ‘Bush sucks!’ and not have to worry about it. Many of them enlisted before they ever had a clue that they would be sent overseas to fight in misguided war. (I can write that because of them.) Many had absolutely ZERO desire to be there. But they went. Protest the war and bitch at the politicians that send troops there, but respect the men and women who are Veterans, and those who will be Veterans.

Depression sucks (part 2)

There are a lot of topics, hot button topics, that I want to write about. I have words swirling about in my head that need some order. There are words that I have written in years past with pen and paper (remember them?) that need to be input. For now, I have been writing mostly about health issues (and the Red Sox, can't forget them.) The reason this blog exists is because of these gdfn Parkinson's (PD) symptoms that I have been battling for over two years. (Depression is one of the symptoms of PD.) Depression is making it very hard for me to get things done right now. This includes answering calls and e-mails from my family and friends. My Medi-Care application has already been turned down by the SSA (Social Security), so now I have hired a barrister to take the reins and get the appeal filed. How many times have we heard "The waiting is the hardest part." It's so true. I'm depressed, scared, tired, and in pain.

And I wait.

Today I went to a free clinic about the depression and received a prescription for another anti-depressant. I'm so tired of taking all these meds. (Right now my legs feel as if they are on fire, must take more meds.) Once the application is approved, I can go back to see my regular physician and neurologist so I can resume treatments for all these ailments- PD, depression, sleep apnea, RLS, CFS, tinitus, acid reflux.... I'm a wreck, I tell ya!

Once I get through this period of waiting, once I resume treatments, hopefully sooner than that, I will be writing about other topics. And I'll be writing to my family and friends, too.

In the meantime, please don't misunderstand quiet on my part for disinterest, ok? OK!

Yeah, depression sucks, but.....

There ain't nuthin' like a thrilling Red Sox come-from-behind victory like tonight's playoff game against the Tampa Bay Rays to help lift your spirits! WOO HOO! Fuckin A! WOW!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Depression Sucks

I'm so fucking depressed, it's not even funny.
Sounds like something Yogi Berra would say. (He didn’t really say everything he said.)

Depression sucks. Literally, physically. Making it worse, is that it is really hard to explain to the average person what it feels like. The ‘ignorami’ will say things like, “Oh just get over it!” or “Will you get a life already?!” It is also extremely difficult to get to the root of the depression. Even if you come close to finding the cause, it still takes a lot of work, I mean a LOT of work, to make things right, or at least to get headed in the right direction. Even with qualified therapists and proper pharmaceutical meds, there is no guarantee that the depression will be eased. Causes could include chemical imbalances in the brain, injuries to the brain, or a series of circumstances that are devastating to the spirit of the depressed, sometimes called ‘situational depression.’ The ‘anger-turned-inwards’ theory, while debunked by some, certainly makes sense to me. My father is a very quiet, mild mannered man. I would have to delve deep to recall any instance of him losing his temper. Like father, like son.

My depression goes way back. Moving to a new town as I entered 8th grade was definitely the catalyst that sent me into a downward spiral of depression. Because my mother was still teaching at the school I had been enrolled in since 1st grade, it was decided that I would finish middle school there. In 1st grade, there aren’t as many physical differences between the tallest and the shortest, the strongest and the weakest, but by the time 6th, 7th, and 8th grades arrive, the differences are much more pronounced. I remained one of the three shortest boys in my class for the duration of the 8 years. I did not develop social skills, athletic skills, or self defense skills either. I did not have, and still do not have, that ‘gift of gab.’ I am not a salesman type, a smooth talker, a schmoozer. Don’t ask me to play poker, I’ll make you rich. (That is, if I had any money.) I recall my mother describing me as ‘happy-go-lucky’ (whatever that means) when I was about 5 or 6 years old. I don’t know what happened from the time I was 5 or 6 to the time 8th grade came around, but by that time I was ripe for this shit. I started drinking (Boone’s Farm Apple Wine) at age 13, and started smoking pot a year later. I didn’t realize it, but I was trying to escape the depression. But what kid at age 12 or 13 even has a clue that he’s depressed? Or has even knows what ‘depression’ is? It was the thing to do when you’re a teenager (drinking), but obviously I was enjoying it a lot more than my friends. High school sucked big time and drove me into an even deeper abyss. College in Florida was better, but I was still depressed and still didn’t know it. The depression and the accompanying substance abuse derailed blooming success in my savior at the time: my involvement in organized competition water skiing, at both the regional (and almost national) amateur levels, as well as the intercollegiate national level. My involvement in organized skiing kept me busy enough to keep from going off the deep end, but my substance abuse kept me from reaching any sustained level of success.

After my oldest brother moved to Tennessee the year I graduated from college in Florida, I felt even more lost. That’s when I discovered cocaine. The difference this time was that coke made me feel happy! It made the physical aches and pains go away! It woke me up at night when I wanted to stay out later, and the next day when I had to go to work. It helped me talk to girls! I still drank and smoked pot, frequently to excess, but they were taking a back seat to the coke. Well, before ya knew it, I had pissed away about $20k in about a year. (Still had no clue I was depressed.) Ran away from home at age 27 to come to California and ended up living in my van for about 5 months. I didn’t know where to get coke, so I drank. A lot, perhaps 6-12 bottles of beer every night for over 6 months. I met a woman who took a keen interest in me, and watched my drinking disappear. I took one drink of alcohol in a three year stretch after meeting her (but still did not know I was depressed.) Life continued to be a struggle. I’m sure the depression hindered my advancement in career and relationships, but I just kept on plugging along, taking one setback after another. In 1995, my physician at the time was the first one to ever suggest to me that I may be suffering from depression. I saw a therapist once, maybe twice back then, before a series of events took place that year that made me completely forget about my depression. For about a year, anyhow.

For the longest time, I attributed the continual depression to the lack of advancement in employment, social, and economic arenas. It has only been relatively recently that it dawned on me that it might have been the other way around.

So what exactly does depression feel like? I’m sure it’s different for all sufferers, but for me, at its worst, it can be downright painful. There was one day in particular that I recall. It was in October of 2005. I could not get out of bed. Literally. It felt like there was a huge stake driven into my chest pinning me to my bed. While this feeling is not uncommon, this is as bad as it can get. Most of the time I experience this sinking feeling in my chest, as if there was a huge black hole behind my sternum sucking every last bit of energy out of me that it is able, down into some bottomless pit somewhere deep inside. Those are the more physical symptoms. Behavioral symptoms may include actions such as rat-packing, disregard for health and cleanliness issues, procrastination, OC behaviors, fatigue, and lethargy. That’s not to say I’m doing all of those. Despite having a moving sale and selling many belongings on craigslist, I tend to pick up a lot of cheap stuff at the Goodwill and free stuff from craigslist. My house and laundry are fairly clean, but I am having an extremely difficult time getting ‘household administrative’ type tasks done in a timely manner. By ‘household administrative’ tasks, I mean things like filing your income tax form in January instead of April even when you know you’re getting a healthy refund, paying rent and bills on time, filling out forms for Social Security and other state and county services. I sleep 10-11 hours a day, and rarely feel like going out. Even initiating contact, or returning e-mails and phone calls from family and friends is difficult. Right now, I have little desire to do much of anything outside of the home; the Red Sox, writing and taking care of the plants in my patio are about the only things I do care about right now.

I anxiously await my Social Security/Medi-Care application to be approved so that I may resume treatment for Parkinson’s and this gdfn depression.

Depression sucks. Literally. But at least now I know it.

Angels and Assholes

Damn! That felt good to get that out of my system, but this blog isn't all about negativity. That book got me thinking, so I wrote. Soon, I'll be writing about the angels I have known.

Fucking Asshole #1: Carrie Cummings

Fucking Assholes, cont.

1. Carrie Cummings~ This one is really mind-boggling and still fresh in my memory. This one is really painful.

I met Cummings in December of 2002 after she responded to a M ISO F post on craigslist.org (well before that board became overrun with spammers.) She made it clear early on that she wasn’t necessarily looking for a romantic relationship when she responded to my post, so unlike Kathy Waitt, I knew what to expect and what not to expect as far as relationships go. I had hoped that there might be a spark of interest on her part in a romantic relationship, but since I knew in advance not to expect that, I let that notion die a noble death very early in our friendship. Really, I did. I had learned my lesson in previous relationships. I would not let myself ‘fall in love’ or even ‘fall in like’ unless I knew the other was sincerely interested in that kind of relationship. Platonic it was to be, and so it was. No problem. We watched movies, went to local shows and festivals, did favors for each other… all the usual things good friends do for each other, with absolutely no furthur thought given by me to any other type of relationship other than platonic. Really. I loved her like a sister I never had. She was my best friend. This went on for almost 2 years.

In 2004, I was having an employment crisis (see Kathy Parker Brown & Richard Wade.) I was becoming depressed again due to this change in my employment status. A knee injury in August forced surgery in October. After surgery, 10 days of Percocet, and a couple more weeks of Vicodin, my brain was fried. I was in a fog. My libido had all but disappeared. While I was home from work for about 6 weeks, she started hauling me around to various rentals in San Rafael and Novato. I knew my employer would be moving to Petaluma in a year, so I had little or no interest in moving to San Rafael, despite the fact that I had been looking for another job. I had also been agonizing over the possibility of moving back east to RI. My debt had risen to astronomical levels. I paid off my car in 2002 with my credit card when I was unemployed in that heinous job market, as I was not about to lose my transportation to see my daughter 25 miles away at the time (1/2 hour by car, probably 2+ hours by several busses, each way.) Ultimately, I decided to remain in CA for my daughter’s sake. (No matter how many times each of us flew back and forth across the country, no matter how much time she spent in RI in the summer, it just would not be acceptable to miss out on her being that close to me.) I was confused and in a very deep funk in 2004 when she decided she wanted me to be her housemate. I had been living in a tiny studio apartment, so moving back into a normal sized house was not unappealing to me. We looked at several rentals, all unacceptable for one reason or another, until 808 Tamalpais Avenue in Novato came along. This was an amazing house for the amount that was asked for rent. Had this house not come along, the following debacle might not have happened. It was a 3 bedroom, 2 bath house with plenty of off street parking and storage. On one side of the house were two equal bedrooms and a bathroom in between them. In the middle of the house was a living room with fireplace, dining area, kitchen, and breakfast nook. On the other side of the house was a huge bedroom, another full bathroom, and laundry room. This huge room used to be the garage, but was insulated, paneled, and carpeted. This would be my room, while she would take the two on the other side. I even had a small, private patio off of my bedroom. There was a nice, shaded patio across the back of the house, and a storage shed as well. This place would do. Unfortunately, I did not know that she had to move. She did not make this known to me.

We signed a lease towards the end of November with a move in date of December 1st. It was extremely short notice for me to move, forcing me to pay rent at two locations for almost a month. I called the phone company (when I still had a land line) and told them I was moving, here’s the old address, here’s the new address. That’s what you do when you’re moving, right? Back to work at the end of November and still living in the studio, I come home and just barely reach the ringing phone in time as I was walking in the door. Oh how I wish I had missed that call! It was her calling me and bitching at me for calling Verizon before she did. She couldn’t get her phone installed as early as she wanted because of some snafu with the phone company, hinging upon my calling them first. After a three way conversation with her and Verizon, I blinked first and allowed them to install her phone first. Had I realized that this was just the tip of the iceberg, I would have pulled out still dripping, but since I had no reason to believe that this behavior would continue, I shrugged it off as moving trauma.

We had a verbal OK to start moving stuff in before the 1st of December, so we did. I had hoped for a lease starting December 15th. (Don’t forget, I had just had knee surgery.) Since I did sign a lease with the owner of the house (I was renting from him, with her, not renting from her), I stepped up my plans, got busy, and started moving stuff in earnest on December 1st and finalizing the move during the very 1st weekend of that month. I arrive at the house with a truck full of furniture, plants, and belongings and started moving in. She looked at me funny when I showed up that day, as if to say, “What are you doing here? You said you didn’t want to move until the 15th?” I was too busy to notice, and just kept on moving.

It just got worse from there. She had something to say about everything, I mean every fucking thing I did or owned. Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch! JHFC! The mind boggling part is that we weren’t strangers meeting on the craigslist housemate board. She knew me, had been to my place several times, and knew exactly the way I did things and the way I ran my household. She on the other hand had not been living in her own place, but had been renting rooms or housesitting, so I never really did see her place.

The list of complaints registered by her is extensive (seemingly near endless) and has already been well documented and will not be rehashed again in this post. We’re talking real petty shit here. (I probably wrote a good dozen drafts of an e-mail that I sent her after I moved out. Maybe I’ll post the final one later.) By the time the end of December came around, I was already saying to myself, “WTF did I get my ass into this time?!” That soon became, “I don’t believe this is fucking happening!”

I don’t know what happened to her the day we signed the lease, but that day my former best friend ceased to exist and was replaced by some unrecognizable, evil, and unholy C-Witch. She started disappearing for a couple of days at a time which made things just a little bit easier for a short while. Then she started spending more time at home again, resuming the bitching. She left for a week or so around Independence Day. I was about a half c-hair away from kissing my deposit and good rental record away and sending them down the toilet. I was this close () to shoveling everything I owned in that house into a truck on the 4th, stiffing her for the rent, and just disappearing. Unfortunately, I was so gdfn tired and completely drained from this bitch’s complaining that I simply did not have the energy to pull it off. I had already sat down with her back in January, offered her a glass of wine and a smoke from the peace pipe, and tried to talk about all this, but to no avail. (The next day, she actually threw a hissy fit over a dish rack and a drain board! Seriously! A dish rack and a drain board!) There were only 5 months left before the lease was up. I could probably start moving in 4 months if I was lucky. So I decided to bite the bullet and stay for the next couple of months, as she had started to disappear for a couple of days at a time again.

As you will read in an upcoming post, I have been suffering from depression for most of my life. She knew that. I told her. This Dr. Jeckyll/Mr. Hyde transformation completely blind-sided me. Disbelief, pain, depression, horror…. they all sucked the life right out of me. I stood my ground earlier in the lease, but as the year went on, her constant nit-picking, and that screechy, blonde, southern California, bimbo, valley, surfer-dudette sounding “D-A-A-A-V-E” whine whenever she found something else to her disliking just plain wore me out. At one point in October, I called in sick to work as I literally felt as if I had a stake driven through my chest pinning me to the bed. But this story is not through, yet, oh no, no, no, no.

I had been ready to move to Petaluma (where I was working) as early as November, 2005, the last month of the lease, when my daughter’s mother started talking about Sierra coming to move in with me. OK. I had absolutely no problem with my daughter moving in with me, but jeez, I wish my ex had her shit together a little, ykwim? This last minute about face stay in Novato news was like a double edged sword. On one hand I was ecstatic to have Sierra move in with me so she could be exposed to a little more stable and orderly way of life that my ex had not been able to provide, but on the other, it meant staying in Novato. I had already been through a move just before 8th grade, we had already moved Sierra just before she entered 7th grade, so I was not about to put her through the same hell that I went through, so white-bread Novato it would be. (Christ, if only she- my ex- had done this one year earlier! Fuck!!)

Now at just about this same time, the ‘boyfriend’ of the C-Witch started to stay over every night. After a couple of weeks, I finally said something to her about him, and her response was that he was going overseas soon for an extended period of time and had already moved out of his place. Well, one night when she wasn’t around, he revealed to me that they were married. Married? Married?! He wasn’t going anywhere! He had moved in! You fucking cunt! On top of everything else you did to me the past year, now you go and move your husband in without asking me or the landlord, not even telling either of us. Phil Ward, the landlord, should be in the ‘honorable mentions’ for his lack of action in regards to her breaking the lease. She breaks the lease, the landlord doesn’t give a shit, I’ve done nothing wrong, and I’m the one who has to move. Go figure.

Now I have to find a place in Novato that I can afford, but I’m not about to move twice, so I ended up staying 2 more months past the end of the lease until the end of January. Fortunately, I was able to find one of those ‘below-the-radar’ below-market rate rentals, but the damage to our relationship, as well as my psyche was done. Before I left, I made damn sure that my bedroom and bathroom were in the exact same condition as when I moved in. I made sure the kitchen was spotless. I even shampooed the carpeting in the high traffic zone. Just as I made sure I did my job correctly at City Hall Records, I made damn sure that she would know she lost one of the best friends and housemates that anyone could ever ask for. I cleaned up after myself, did chores around the house, and paid all my rent and utilities on time every month!

As testimony to the viciousness of her attacks, one of the last things she did to me was to take a dump in my toilet and leave it there for me to find when I came home from work. We’re talking a huge, nasty, manly floater, here. I asked her who took the dump and left it, and her response in a totally unapologetic tone of voice was, “Oops.” You can have your dump back now.

Carrie Cummings, you shit all over your best friend. You are a fucking asshole and a fucking cunt from hell. (And from what I hear from Novato HS students, you suck as a teacher, taboot!)

Fucking Asshole #2: Robin Cohn of City Hall Records, San Rafael, CA

Fucking Assholes, cont.

2. Robin Cohn (& Grace Cohn)~ Grace was not as nasty as her husband, but she was a micro-manager from hell. Robin Cohn, however, came this close ( ) to making #1 on the list. The dot-com I had been working for went belly up before the stock options vested. Not paying a whole lot of attention to the cooling economy as the job market was still robust, I decided to take a position with City Hall Records (a music distribution company, not government related) rather than Pixar. In hindsight, Pixar would have been the better choice, but it was much, much furthur from home, and located in an urban area as well, just the type of place I was trying to avoid. Again, in hindsight, it would have been better for my romantic/social life, too. Since I had no desire to commute some 30 miles through one of the nastiest commute corridors in the country, and since I had no desire to move closer in, and since I had a job offer that combined my accounting experience and my love of music, I decided on City Hall Records. I even called a friend who knew a well known recording artist who worked there to get his opinion of the place. He should have told me to run as fast as possible away from CHR, but he didn’t. The time off benefits were a little on the low side (another missed clue), but I received an extra 3 week’s vacation time during my job negotiations, which offset the meager time off flag that had gone off. My very first day on the job, Robin Cohn viciously erupted and berated the woman I was to supervise in front of everyone in the office. ‘O-o-o-K-a-y… what did I get myself into here’, I thought. It just got worse from there. Within a few short weeks, RC had made my life such a miserable hell, that I decided to take those two weeks off that summer that I had already planned, and then find another job. Before you knew it, 911 hit and the bottom completely fell out of the job market. I wanted to quit so badly, but everyone said to keep your job and don’t quit until you have another one. This asshole caused me so much stress and misery, that I literally had to go and take a dump nearly once an hour. He instructions were difficult to understand, and even contradictory at times. Vendors with whom I had never spoken with would verbally take me out behind the woodshed! WTF did I ever do to you Mr. Vendor?! After the 2nd week off in August just before 911, they demoted me. Not fired, or laid off. Demoted. He didn’t want to pay any penalties for ending my employment, so he made my life as miserable as possible hoping that I would quit. Sorry, Cohn. Couldn’t do it. I had a kid to raise, ykwim? He finally blinked first. After nearly 18 months at ‘Shitty Hell Records’, I was told that I was going to be laid off sometime in the near future. That tactic didn’t work either. I was finally, mercifully let go, but several weeks later.

The irony of this whole episode is that I had finally come to terms with the fact that I had a shitty job in a shitty job market, and that a lot of people would have gladly traded places with me. I was just a day or two away from signing a lease on a house in Fairfax when I was informed of the impending lay off. Great. Now that I had accepted the job situation, found housemates, and a house…..this.

I believe that my predecessor in accounts payable decided to screw things up as much as possible to get back at Cohn for all the misery he caused her. I had waist deep shit to wade through. Accounts were severely fucked up, I mean big time! Since I had resigned myself to the fact I was stuck there, I made it my mission to get those accounts straightened up as much as possible, which I did. A/P was in much better shape when I left than when I started. Ask Judy.

Fucking Asshole #3: Bill Lynch

Fucking Assholes, cont.

3. Bill Lynch (and the SRA Class of ’75)~ Our family moved from East Providence to Pawtucket, just one town over, as I was entering 8th grade. My parents decided that I would finish middle school at the same school I had been going to since 1st grade. Although this high school was in a different town, there were a couple of guys there I knew from middle school, but they weren’t necessarily guys I knew well. Although I had been living in the new town for almost a year, I did not know anyone in my neighborhood for two reasons. One was that I continued school at my old school for 8th grade. The other reason was that we were one of the very few Catholic families in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood. So besides not seeing anyone from the neighborhood in school, neither did I get to know any of them through church related activities. I enter this new school with raw social skills, nearly zero athletic skills, and zero street smarts. I was at the bottom of the pecking order. I got picked on and was both verbally and physically abused. I was held upside down and nearly had my head forced into a toilet, but somehow found the strength to avoid that humiliation. Freshman year was the worst, but all four years sucked. Graduation day was probably one of the saddest days of my life, as evidenced by the look in my eyes in a photo taken of me and my folks that day. (If I ever find it, I’ll scan it and post it here.)

So why Bill Lynch? Lynch-Maciel. He sat right in front of me in freshman year and never missed an opportunity to give me a whack whenever Brother Andrew (another asshole) wasn’t looking. He is the one I remember, the ringleader. I have delightfully forgotten most of the details of the 4 years of abuse, but I haven’t forgotten how Lynch, Ed Dalton, Steve Ormerod, Tony Kaczmarek, Jim Bonin, Robert Sinotte, and several others made me feel then and now. Several years ago, I threw away my yearbooks. Garbage. A waste of four years. I’ve forgotten the names of the others who were part of this crew who terrorized not only me, but Mo Girard, Robert Halliday, and a few other misfits whose names escape me as well. Not everyone in the whole class was an asshole. Disqualified from that status would be Jim Savage, Mike Swiader, Pat Quinn, Tom Pontiatowski, Rick Hill, and Dennis Peloquin, among a couple of others. Like I said, I threw away the yearbooks and have forgotten much from that era.

Lynch, you beat the shit out of me psychologically. I’m sure some minor physical crap was beaten out of me, and while those scars are gone, the psychological ones remain. After four years of eating the shit you and your henchmen force fed me, I was not ready for college or the real world. I suffered injuries from which I have never fully recovered from. As I mentioned at the beginning of these ‘Fucking Asshole’ posts, I don’t dwell upon all the injustices I have been served by the assholes I’ve encountered in my lifetime. I don’t think of you. (Do you think of me?) But I read “The No Asshole Rule”, and lo and behold, when I venture to recall the assholes I’ve known, you come up at #3, even after all these years. All 33 of them.

Fucking Asshole #4: Kathy Waitt

Fucking Assholes, cont.

4. Kathy Waitt~ She could’ve told me she was engaged. She could’ve told me she was seeing someone, but no. She used to drive an hour and a half to come water ski with me after work, but sometimes didn’t even ski, just stayed and hung out in the boat with me. Stayed overnight on occasion, too. I thought we were really getting along that summer. We both were into competition water skiing, liked to drink beer, the Red Sox. Her parents even liked me and I was good friends with her brother. Then one day she just disappeared. Stopped answering my calls, was always away from her desk when I called her at work. I was crazed! I couldn’t understand why any of this was happening. She was the first great love of my life. If she had only said at the start, “Y’know Dave, I’ve been seeing someone, but right now, I’m not sure about it”, or something, anything, to let me know where she was coming from. I took a job north of Boston and moved there to try and find her. When I needed answers the most, I was getting nothing. After about 2 months, she finally agreed to see me, but I was so shaken by her disappearance, I didn’t know what to say when I finally did get to see her. You have to remember, I never did have great social skills with the opposite sex. I never did see her again, except for the New Year’s Eve party. Quite unexpectedly, we were at the same party, when she introduced me to her fiancée. Yeah, her fiancée. A little hint would have been nice 6 months ago. This non-relationship was the door to my cocaine abuse episode.

Fucking Asshole #5: Juan Gratten

Fucking Assholes, cont.

5. Juan Gratten~ This ex-housemate from hell was the first of two notables that I’ve had while doing the housemate thing. He rented a room from me in a 2 bedroom apartment near Fairfax that was more like a house than an apartment. He was a college student majoring in music. He said he practiced piano as much as 6 hours a day. There were no problems that I recall while living in that apartment, outside of a mysterious missing goldfish that was never found. Shortly after he moved in, the new owners of the building served notice that all residents were to move out in 30 days in order for renovations to begin. It was an extremely tight rental market at the time. Since he seemed to be normal, I decided to look for a three bedroom house and a third housemate, as a three bedroom home would be cheaper per bedroom than a two bedroom home. I found a home and another housemate and moved in. The very first day I came home from work to the new home, I discovered a trail of soy sauce on the brand new carpet from the kitchen through the living room to the front door. I don’t know what happened to this guy. He started leaving dirty dishes all over the kitchen. He would leave for school and not turn the stove off. One night I came home about 2 am to find the garage door open. I walked into the garage and into the utility room, but decided to leave just in case there was someone in the house that ought not be there. I started to look for a phone booth to call 911, but figured that if there was someone there, they probably heard me close the garage door and left. Since I had some ganja in the house, I decided not to call the police. Well it turned out that the idiot had come home drunk and high as a kite to get something but had forgotten to bring his keys with him, so he pried open the garage door, turned on all the lights, got what he came for, and left without tending to the minor details of lights and doors. He broke my turntable. He would come home midweek to a totally dark house, as Lisa and I both had jobs to get up early for, slam doors, bang pots and pans, talk loudly with his friends, and wake us both up. The house was a no-tobacco house. His friends smoked the unkind and used my morning vitamin cup as an ashtray. He began to smoke a lot of pot. A *lot*. The list goes on and on and on. It got to the point that Lisa and I told him that he would have to move out at the end of the lease, so he decided to throw a party before he left. He told me he was only inviting 30 to 40 of his best friends. I thought, “Why not invite all your best friends?” It turned out that he had cards printed up with the address on them and was handing them out to total strangers all over campus. Why I allowed him to throw this soiree, I don’t know, but I did, so I felt I needed to stay and be the policeman, as I had a notion that trouble was quite possible. I left for about an hour and came back to find smokers in the house, and strangers making phone calls on the house phone after I specifically told him not to have revelers in the living room area. They found my drum set which I had put behind a curtain. Soon there were well over 50 strangers in the house and yard with more constantly showing up, so I decided to walk into town as I couldn’t deal with this shit any longer. As I was leaving, I saw Lisa’s bedroom light go on. She was out of town for the weekend and he was bringing another woman into her bed! GTFO!!! I kicked them out of the upstairs living room and bedrooms, secured the area as best I could, and walked into town. I stopped at a pay phone and called 911 on my own house. I drank a beer at 19 Broadway and then returned home only to find police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances outside of my home. Apparently I wasn’t the only one to call the cops, as this was their third trip there. The officers saw me walk up the street. I innocently asked what all the commotion was when they told me about the many visits this night. “Three times? Really?” I walked into the house and saw a disaster. There had been a fight in the music studio. At least two of his friends passed out and needed to be taken away by ambulance. The kitchen and back yard looked like war zones. He had been dealing with the peace officers on one side of the house. I had to take a ½ hour walk to cool down as I surely would have killed the bastard that night. How dare he trash my home like that?! I did not see him that night. He made a half assed attempt at cleaning that night and finished the next day. A week or so later, he moved out without cleaning his bedroom, nor did he do any deep cleaning in the kitchen. Lisa and I did not use the kitchen nearly as much as he did over the course of the year. I waited a week for him to come back and clean, but he never showed up. I called a cleaning agency, had them clean the two rooms in question, secured an invoice for the work, and deducted that amount from his deposit. I can’t believe that he had the audacity to complain about it! He never apologized for the misery he caused, the party disaster, or leaving without cleaning.

A couple of years after he moved out, the Pacific Sun free weekly newspaper ran a story about a rehab program in the San Geronimo Valley and specifically mentioned Juan Gratten as one of their success stories. WTF?! JG?! No FN way! He was NOT sober at all, as they referenced the time period he was my housemate. I called the facility and informed them of the con he pulled on them, but I have no idea what happened after the call.

Several years later, he approached me at the Fairfax Festival. The first thing I said was, “Do I know you?” That should have been a huge clue that I had no desire to speak with him. He continued to badger me about holding a grudge that long, so I just walked away. I had done a pretty good job of forgetting about him. I had absolutely no good memories of him, so why would I want to speak with him. He made no apologies then, nor on this day. I forgot about him once, I’ll forget about him again.