The Bostonian Abroad

The Duck Dynasty guy who said being gay was a sin and that it was on a par with beastiality was allowed back on his show. Originally, he was suspended for what he said because it was deemed offensive. People lined up on both sides on this issue, some wanting to protest the man's suspension and other wanting to protest against the man's ever returning to the show. What it comes down to is hate speech. Some see it as this and others do not. The ones who say it is hate speech want to protest and boycott the show and anyone who supports what that dude said. Saying that being gay is bad or sinful or unnatural is hate speech and ignorant in these people's eyes. On the other side, you have the people who say that dude has the right to his opinion, that it isn't hateful to think it wrong to be gay, and they say the Constitution protects the right to free speech. So who is right? I have two opinions about this. On the one hand, they are both right. In this day and age,

There was a time when I would relish the opportunity to get out on my motorcycle at this time of the year, December, and ride in the cold to prove myself to myself that I am tough or some such ridiculous thing. For a long time, I thought myself tough, wanted to prove it, and kept myself fit for the purpose of proving myself and being invincible, at least in spirit. Then I turned forty. My father died the next day. I broke my leg real bad two months later. I had a major affair. I got divorced. And for some unknown reason, I just don't really want to be tough anymore. I don't see myself that way, nor do I even see any value in seeing myself that way or being that way. If anything, it is a liability. I was a rageaholic for a long time. I got into situations that could have led to my death. I even got charged with assault! Being tough does not work out for me. It works against me. I think I just ran out of steam. I lost the desire to be tough, even remotely. Besides, how

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THE RED SOX HAVE WON BASEBALL'S WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THIS IS THE THIRD TIME IN MY LIFETIME I HAVE BEEN LUCKY ENOUGH TO WITNESS A RED SOX WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP, AND LET ME TELL YOU, IT FUCKING ROCKS! WE STARTED OUT THE WORST TEAM IN BASEBALL AFTER LAST YEAR'S DEBACLE. wE GOT BOMBED BY FUCKHEADS IN APRIL, AND WE CAME BACK, BEATING EVERYONE TO BE THE FUCKING WORLD CHAMPIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BOSTON STRONG, BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Was listening to songs of old age and loss and realized something, perhaps deep, perhaps obvious. Probably both, which is usually the case: We are meant to lose. Loss is our refusal to accept that nothing is ours, not even our lives. We lose everything in the end. If we realize and accept that we actually don't have anything anyway, maybe that can free us from the fear of losing. Maybe, knowing that we are going to lose everything will make us savor it more, enjoy it that much more. And maybe it will help us to let go of things when the time comes. Think of all the pain that has come from not wanting to lose something. The fear involved at the thought of loss, followed by the pain of having it gone, and then the interminable pain of regret and that emptiness we just cannot fill. Why not just let it go and move on to the next thing. Enjoy each thing. Get nourishment from it like you do food, and then let it pass on to wherever it is going next. Ahh, but we like things too much.

I have an evil twin. He comes out and takes over my body and mind when I am on 30 milligrams for two days in a row. Yesterday was one of those days. Today is a 60 day, so I can really see the sharp contrast between the two personalities I currently exhibit. What is it like to suffer from Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD)? (And when I say "suffer," I mean that EVERYONE around me suffers as well.) When the "real" me, the undrugged me, comes to the fore and takes the wheel, everything is different. It is not that any stimulus triggers the anger or rage, it is that the anger or rage is simply stuck in the "on" position. I could be in a stimulus-free environment, with the perfect air temperature, food, drink, and comfort, and I would still be borderline furious, wanting to destroy the entire universe. Yesterday, all day, I was raving, passionate about the littlest thing, adamant about it all, and wanting to argue with every detail, every minute fabric

This is my second tattoo. People say that once you get your first tattoo, you get addicted and want more and more. This is not the case with me. I have always wanted more than one, and I think this time in my life is where my tattoo getting shall begin. My rationale is that I am old enough now where I know the difference between whim and serious desire. I also know the ramifications of permanent alteration to the body. Further, my skin has been damaged by life: precancerous moles removed, leaving scars, sun damage, pock marks from acne, wrinkles, stretch marks from long-disappeared muscles, and just plain old age-wrinkled skin. Why not choose my damage? And what of how I will look when I am 80? Won't my tattoos look stupid when I am 80? Well, assuming I even live that long, and it ain't looking so good from the looks at my genetic inheritance, IF I make it to 80, my skin will be so fucked up that a tattoo will only blend in to the fucked-upedness, and it will probably make

This is the tattoo I got for my broken, stupid leg. It is in Ogham and in Irish and says I will not take shit from evil. Another tattoo is coming. It is the result of a saga of near quest-like proportions. You see, I have had to learn the hard way just how fucked up the tattoo profession really is. There are really no standards as to who can set up shop or what a real tattoo artist actually is. Here are some of the bullshit experiences I have had in just the last three months of trying to get a fucking tattoo. You're supposed to get a personal recommendation, so I did. It didn't pay off. I went to Warlock's because a friend of mine said she liked it. That was 20 years ago. Cut to me, standing in front of the tattoo dude at Warlock's. He is looking at me with a kind of smirk. It says, who the fuck is this middle-aged nerd, coming in here to get a tramp stamp or some shit. He looked entirely disinterested and like I was wasting his precious time as a cool tattoo d

Not that anyone cares one iota, but there are some things I am against, and today, I am of a mind to write it down. First off, I am against organized religion. I know that nothing will ever change in my lifetime, but I believe organized belief systems and the hierarchical structures they create and maintain are detrimental to human society and the planet as a whole. Organized religion is based upon a philosophy propounded by an individual, like Jesus, Mohamed, Moses, or Buddha, and then others build schema on top of it. Over the years, and even millennia, these organizations force rules and interpretations on people, very often in a detrimental way. The original person who started this religion may or may not have been a product of his or her time and gender, and so we can see the flaws in the thinking as times change and peoples evolve. In the end, we find these organized religions and their followers splitting up into different sects, and they fight each other. Then, as secular so

After many years of thinking about getting a tattoo and after many ideas coming and going, I finally made the leap and got a tattoo. Originally, I wanted a Red Sox tattoo, until my wife at the time pointed out that it would be akin to getting a Coke tattoo. So that idea was out. I also wanted a Harley tattoo, but it would have been even more like Coke, so that was out. I thought about getting a combination tattoo that had elements of different things I love, but that fizzled. Then came my broken leg and the scars that came with it. I figured that I could get a tattoo on my leg since it was already messed up. So I thought and thought about what to put. . . And then I got the idea to get a heritage tattoo. So my tatto is a combination of ideas: 1. Tribute to my Irish heritage. 2. Tribute to my Father. 3. Interpretation of my name. 4. Superstition. 5. Reminiscent of my scarring. 6. Reminder of my accident and fragility. 7. Evocative of my profession (i.e., linguistics becau

My sister says that my father's spirit regularly does things to let her know he is there. He turns on the TV, changes the channels, and even starts the washing machine. My sister Sue apparently also experienced a sink suddenly coming on. I have seen peripheral things, but nothing directly. The night before my Dad died, I saw the angel in the room. It appeared to my right and when I turned to see who had entered, it was gone. It was pretty startling. My Dad died the next day. So I often wonder why my TV has not acted weird or why my washing machine doesn't come on by itself. I think maybe he shoved me off my motorcycle in 2010. I have no real proof, but I feel like he did. So why nothing else at my house??? Perhaps it is because I am anti bully and I see a ghost in my house as a kind of bully. If a ghost were manipulating things in my house, I would go ballistic. I hate bullies. And ghosts are bullies to me. Even in dreams, if I see a ghost, I immediately attack it, punc

The only one who gets it will get it, which explains things. Ba-fucking-oo. I just wanted to share a thought with the universe. Nothing deep or meaningful. I don't know who the fuck I am supposed to be. I can't be who I used to be --for various reasons. Who I was might very likely get me thrown in jail nowadays. Plus, who I was seems to have worsened into some evil asshole anyway, so I can't be THAT anymore. And on this medicated existence, I feel, but not really. It's like I am watching my life and not really in it. I don't really know how to describe it. Tourism? I feel things, but not with any depth, which is probably good, given that I'm a prick when at full-bore. Most of my non-work life is spent sleeping or lounging. I just do not have any desire to do anything else. I've gained a medium-sized pygmy in weight, so my cardio-vascular health is probably none-too exemplary. So here I am, 42, fat, drugged, and happy, sort of. I kind of f

He would probably not want me to do this, but too bad. I'm alive and he's dead. He was my grandfather. He lived from around 1905 to 1973. He was born in the Boston area and had siblings that he apparently had to raise because his dad died. When he married my grandmother, Helena "Edna" Francis, he had already basically raised a family and had no interest in having one of his own. My grandmother had different ideas. She was a force of nature, so he relented and my mother was born in 1937. The war broke out for the US in 1941, and he went down to the war department several times, begging to be accepted. He was old already, but finally, they let him in. He went into the US Navy. He ended up in Hawaii. He was stationed, I'm told, aboard an aircraft carrier, and he saw action in the Pacific theater. The only stories I have of this period of his life are 1. He watched helplessly as his best friend was killed in a Kamikaze attack, allegedly seeing the plane hit his fr

Well, they got the kid. I was glued to the news that whole last day, flipping from HLN, to CNN, to FoxNews, and even to AlJazeera at one point. I was desperate to be there with my people in any way I could reasonably manage. Finally, I ended up on CNN on the TV, FoxNews on the computer, and the Live Scanner on the computer as well. The scanner turned out to be the most interesting and revealing, and I was able to figure out what they were saying based on my experience in security in Boston and Henniker. I was heartened to hear accents and voices so familiar to me, and they were all speaking in such a real and professional way. I heard the moment they announced that they had that asshole fuck in custody. Ten minutes later, the news announced it. I felt like I was right there!! I spent the next few hours celebrating on my front porch with my neighbor from New Hampshire, raising toasts of scotch and screaming out into the night that "they got that sonofabitch!!!!" And so

And yet, there are people out there who claim that there were not even any victims. There are people out there who claim that FEMA has actors who pretend to be victims. I read about how Jeff Bauman, the poor kid that got his legs blown off was some Afghan War vet who was just acting and that his grievous wounds were just a lot of plastic and makeup. This is outrageous! It is EVIL. It needs to be, it DEMANDS to be opposed, fought against, obstructed, shouted at, fought at ever turn. Why? Because the victims are being victimized all over again for the selfish, sick pleasure of keyboard cowards, people who would never dare to shout their claims in the places these atrocities happened or in front of the homes of the victims. These cowardly people will scan the Internet to find all manner of photos to "prove" that the bombing was a fake, that the victims were actors, that the dead are not dead. Imagine that you are Jeff Bauman, and you come across the ridiculous photos compar

This is what I should be doing. There is a whole lot I should be doing. I have umpteen things on my to-do list. And yet, here I sit, on my man chair, watching TV yet again. It's Sunday. the weather outside is bright and clear, with a perfect temperature of 70-something. But I am hiding indoors. The sun is so bright, and I can still feel the sunburn on my face from my long drive yesterday to South Carolina and back. Seems I did not use enough sunscreen. The sickeningly thick yellow pollen of the Piedmont of North Carolina coats everything, and my allergies are going mad. I'm on a Fexophenadine and two benadryls, and this is keeping the sneezing and itching eyes from becoming unbearable. And so I sit indoors once again, waiting to feel ready to go out and do something with the myself. I feel guilty to be "wasting" this beautiful day, like I always do. But does this guilt move me off my butt and into action? No. I will go when I feel like going; all I wish is not t

It is official. I am, as of the 14th of March, 2013, divorced. You know the bad thing about it? I had to hire a lawyer to process the damned paperwork because it was so hard to do it myself I could not begin to figure it out! Plus, I'd have had to go to court dates and miss work, which would have sucked. Why do they make the paperwork so hard for a simple, uncontested divorce? Feels like a boondoggle to me!!! Anyways, I now face the future with the complete certainty that I am unattached, unmarried, unconnected, and free to define life as I see fit. No regrets, no looking back. Peace and Long Life. . . .

Recently, I decided to look into the option of getting allergy shots. I asked around, especially on the FaceBooks, and found many an opinion in favor of getting them. So I made an appointment at my local allergy doc. Now, I have gotten allergy shots before. I was eleven. I got the scratch test and virtually everything swelled up. I started getting the shots and my arm swelled up like a balloon, so I ended up stopping the shots. Cut to 30 years later and I am back in the doctor's office, getting the scratches. Again, most everything came up and I was told I was a candidate for allergy shots. Ya THINK?????? Hence, I began a regular schedule of driving up to Raleigh twice a week to get stuck in both arms --twice a week!! I get two shots in my right arm and one shot in my left. Almost immediately, I noticed a stiff neck on my left side. At first, I thought it was related to some heavy lifting I had been doing around that time, but the pain persisted for over a week. Also, I starte

Driving home from work today, I came upon two people on bicycles, riding side-by-side, the left rider in the middle of the lane I was driving down. They were not riding quickly, and the left-most rider was swerving back and forth between his girlfriend riding on the right side and the center yellow lines. I beeped as I got close, but the guy did not pull to the side to let me pass. I pulled into the oncoming lane to pass, slowly, and as I did, I rolled the window down and said, "Y'all TRYING to get killed?" I noticed that they both looked poor or even homeless. The guy was bearded and had a ripped up trench coat. He yelled that they had every right I had to ride their bikes down the street where cars go. I had already passed them and left him with a message that he was number one in my thoughts, let's put it that way. That FUCKER. Riding down the middle of the lane when the speed limit is 45 fucking miles an hour. I looked up the law on this and the best I can fi