The Bostonian Abroad

After 32 years in ESL/EFL, most of them spent teaching and advising, and the past decade spent as an administrator, fighting for what is right, I have been railroaded, PIP-ed, set up with a no-win, Kobiyashi Maru scenario, and I was fired, let go, terminated for failing to achieve the standards they never even set. Let me repeat that: Standards they never even set! I was unfortunate enough to be the only one who was willing to run the program I worked in as a teacher for ten years. Twice before, i had been enticed with managerial positions, but I wisely surmised that these positions ampunted to nothing less than bending over and willingly let them mount me to "service my account," as Carlin would say, on a daily basis. I turned "them" down twice, but this third time, they got me on principle. I wanted to protect my program, my students, my adjunct instructors, my full timers. In the end, that is what they used to unceremoniously shove me out the door. I took that ...

Today is a Monday, and I don't want to work. I even asked MS CoPilot how I can get rich without doing anything so that I can stop working, and it chided me, that saucy bot! Well, since I am forced to work until I retire (hopefully) in 9 years, I will continue to struggle with the fact that I no longer love my job, I do it because I have to, and I would much rather devote myself completely to music and art. This made me go online and listen to an interview on YT, featuring a guy I had never heard of who says that he never approached music trying to be like someone or even trying to be "good." He said he just heard stuff he liked and started to do similar things on his own. He talked at length about how he got into music and how he's developed over time. It opened my eyes to a couple of things. First, there is Discord. I need to look into that more. Apparently, I can stream live chats, join others' live chats, and start my own thing. Maybe I can even meet other p...

I almost got fired. Almost canned because I told the truth, was too transparent, and apparently, in describing my department, I made another department look bad (though I said nothing bad about that other department). If I simply describe my department and how we help people, and students can deduce things for themselves, I get in trouble. This came after 7 years of fighting for my program, my people. All my efforts have been received as "poor professional judgment," though what magic tablets they are working from are a mystery to me. I've been told to do immoral, wrong, unethical things, but since they are not illegal, I have no choice. It's "do it or get canned." Throughout all of this and the most challenging time in my career and my life (with idiopathic anaphylaxis), I have sought solace in music. I listen to my favorite musicians, emulate them as best I can, and practice as often as possible, focusing mostly on bari sax and bass guitar. I even starte...

Let's categorize the latest happenings in 2023: 1. February--?? Anaphylaxis. I have had 12 anaphylactic reactions since Februrary of this year. The first one nearly killed me. The second one was almost as bad. The third one was pretty bad as well. Epi Pen saved my life the second 2 events. The ambulance crew saved me that first time. Reason? What reason to cause this? Was it food? No. Was it medication? No. Was it mold? No. What was it? Nobody knows. I had 11 vials of blood taken out of me to be tested for mutations, cancers, etc., and nothing came back as the cause. I have the lovely idiopathic variety of this condition, meaning that at any given moment, my body can go into anaphylaxis and kill me. I recognize the signs now, so I take a handful of diphenhydramine (Benadryl) and hopefully it stops. If it doesn't, then I resort to my Epi pen and another visit to the E.R. 2. Next up: Weight Loss. After the cardiac doctor looked flummoxed about my heart enzymes after anaphylaxis...

Wow! I am still here! Yikes! Who knows how long?? Maybe 8 more seconds, or maybe 100 more years!!

Life in middle management has been an oft-times bitter pill to swallow. Increased responsibility, longer hours, and dealing with more headaches--all while not getting a raise in salary ("lateral move," they said)--all contribute to a serious sense of unease, bordering on despair. Suffice't to say that the past year has been more stressful than I have had to deal with in over a decade, and it has left me feeling increasingly unhappy, angst-ridden, outraged, and just plain demoralized. Lately, and on an increasingly more emphatic scale, I have been looking towards my one and only real outlet for my frustrations: riding my motorcycle. I've ridden more than in years, I have formed an ad hock group of riders/motovloggers for a yearly meetup, I've bought a new motorcycle, and I've wrapped the "biker lifestyle" around myself like a blanket to defend me from the cold. After the bike purchase, I got myself a new jacket, new boots, a Harley biker wallet, c...

I first learned about Dr. Martens in 1992, when my friend Matt, who was cool as all get-out, was wearing a pair on campus at the small college I was attending in New Hampshire. The shoes were Docs, the 1460s, kind of shiny, and not the boots. When I got the chance, I had a pair of my own. Wearing Docs fit in with my developing darker persona in the early-to-mid '90s. I wore mostly black, listened to the Sisters of Mercy, wore an old Army-Surplus field coat, and was pissed off at the world. Living in Boston, and living without a car, I walked everywhere. The city streets are rough on footwear, and my jobs always required a lot of time on my feet, so the Docs were great! --Once I had them broken in. As a teacher, I liked that they were tough and comfortable and fit well with my lifestyle as a young ESL teacher on the make (if an ESL teacher can ever be said to be "on the make"). Then I moved to Fiji, and Docs did not work in that environment at all. They quickly molde...

As I lie here in bed with my dogs, I write this to maintain my active statusand not lose this page. Life has been great! Bike running great! Dogs cute! House tended to. Happiness in new friends. I am 45, chubby, limping, in pain, working, growing, and eager to continue living life to the best extent possible.

I recently discovered my father's brothers and sisters, and this discovery has brought into sharp relief the difficult fact that of my split Catholic/Protestant heritage. My Dad grew up the son of a Catholic woman, but he hated the Catholic Church. He married my mother, who was a Catholic, and I was baptized a Catholic as a baby. I grew up as a Jehovah's Witness, but I have always identified with the Catholic Irish cause for self-governance. Ironic, since JW is a form of Protestantism. Now I find out that my biological grandfather was English, very Protestant, and went on to marry a Protestant lady in Londonderry, Northern Ireland. So let us recap: I grew up JW/Protestant, though I was baptised Catholic, and I am an Agnostic, but I am in favor of a free Ireland and ambivalent about Northern Ireland. My Mom was a Catholic, her dad was one, and her mom was one. As a matter of fact, my Grandfather came from a background of French Heugenots! Anyway, my Dad's mom was a cat...

Now begins the true middle age, the time period when I thicken and huff and puff climbing stairs and feel the creep of time on my very bones, the time when I rail against the loss of virility, and the time when I come to accept my own inevitable exit from existence. And so I seek to find my comfort, my purpose, and my motivation in this new period where the old attitudes no longer fit, kind of like my clothes. Shall I proceed to purchase a fast car or find a fetus girlfriend to "prove" my continued relevance in a youthful frame of mind, a kind of existential masturbation beneath people of my age but all too often fallen into. Time was when I thought of my job as not self-defining; I'd be aghast at the mere thought of my going corporate, middle class, GENERIC. I wanted to be the unique one, the one who bucked all trends and led the world to new heights -- a legend in my own time, a Hemingway wrapped in a Roosevelt, wrapped in a Ghandi. Ahhh, the dreams of youth. . . ...

I learned a few things owning a 2005 Road King. Here is a list of those things that I have learned in no particular order and with a great deal of divergence along the way because I just don't care to be all organized and shit. First and foremost, I learned not to have two separate brands of tires on my bike. That was a bad idea. Everyone says it is fine, but I think not. Right after I bought that Metzler, I crashed. I will not make that mistake again if I can help it! The tires were not very scuffed in. They were cold from sitting a long time outside as I taught inside. The lot was unfamiliar to me and I didn't think of the sand and gravel on the pavement. It was dark. I leaned too aggressively and Blammo! Broken leg, broken life. Another thing I learned is that I don't like being uncomfortable. I used to not mind it so much. It made me tougher, I thought. Pussies want comfort. Well then call me a pussy. I want comfort. My old back rest was not very restful. It had a h...

Sometimes I rummage through the past. I pick out the old pieces and think about what hasn't been in . . . Who I was. Who I became. Who I have become. What I lost. And I realize I rode for more than the reason I had placed before me. And I went down. From my hubris. My abdication. Some things that I have felt. That I have been Never could change. And the road that came after was always harder than I imagined it could be. So now "the springtime of my life's time" has turned the other way. And then some. And I have gone on and lost and lost and gained as well. And I see my journey was more a drifting towards an uncertain future. Pleasure, pain, anger, and the lot, I have endured, carried, and laid down. Because I simply decided to let it go. But ever so less often, things come back to haunt me, in that old familiar way. And I realize My old addiction is still here. Here to stay.

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...