the adventures of shady

I was at the bar last night to play in a songwriter’s showcase (where I would later confess that I’m not so sensitive after all). Of course, I over estimated the amount of time it would take to get down there, and got there early.  With time to kill, I pulled up a stool and started watching some ESPN – not because I was particularly interested in what was on the screen, but because I just didn’t want to talk to anyone at that moment.

There comes the inevitable time when at a bar by your lonesome you hear “Is this seat taken.”  No other words can shatter a sense of peace and sanctity as effectively. This skinny fellow sits down next to me.  We'll call him...Shady, because that's what he was.   He started talking to the guy at his right, kicking off a conversation punctuated with many "I'll tell you what"s and "buddy"s with the occasional "son" thrown in for good measure.  I learned Shady's friend - we'll call him Weirdo with the Long Dangling Earring and Bizarre Haircut – finally got rid of his van of fifteen years by conveniently driving it into a tree.  Nice.  The Dread Pirate Ketus was really messed up.  Totally hammered.  He turned to Shady and stated that it was time to go pick up dinner for the wife and kids, and with great flourish, he stumbled away.

The next logical event occurred.  Shady turned and started talking to me. And talking to me.  And talking to me. And not shutting up.   Shady had just gotten out of his alcohol rehab meeting.  He was in dire need of a drink.  In the space of our little chat, he ordered two kamikaze shots (for himself) and multiple beers.  All the while, telling me about his twenty-four year old girlfriend who is using him for his money.  Mrs. Shady does not put out nearly enough, but he loves her.  He was going to do the right thing and stick it out.  Thank god.  Love is alive and well in Silver Spring.  The conversation then took a tangent where I learned that Nighthawk is the greatest band ever.    He went back to the subject of Mrs. Shady.  She calls him sugar, he calls her brown sugar.  The drink stirrers that I had jammed into my ear canals did not serve as an effective hint that I just didn’t feel like talking.

In the end of the conversation, which miraculously did not involve a bullet or kerosene, Shady gave me his card and promised me, should I call him, I’d be hooked up with some kick-ass seafood down at his crab shack.  You know, where he makes all the money that brown sugar is using him for.  But really, he loves her.

i'm too sexy for this quota

I just cant’ let go. I’ve got a problem and it’s beginning to spiral out of control. I don’t have the stomach for deleting old emails. For someone like myself who has about five-hundred and sixty-nine email accounts, I’m taking up approximately 5.83% of the Internet. If I’m going to take up that much of the Internet, let it be with full resolution photos of my perfect hair or sound bytes of me talking about my favorite subject.


I think there are a lot of contributing factors to this problem. For starters, it’s not good to be both lazy and a member of multiple email lists. I’m on countless email groups and listservs. Okay, not really countless, but it makes this a more dramatic posting. I just cannot muster the effort to delete a message after I’ve read it. Move the pointer. Click delete. Wait. I see at least four steps there. Generally, I prefer one step – next. If I’m going to *read* these emails and maybe even respond, effort is a super-important thing not to waste. There is also the “what if” factor. For example: “What if I need this email from Steve that he sent six months ago asking me if I could bring a bag of ice to his barbeque?”

Why would I ever need to read that email again?

But if I did? And I deleted it? How screwed would I be?

I go through phases where I’ll clean up my email boxes and I’ll even delete messages after I’ve read them. I always fall off the wagon. I just don’t see this changing or getting better. So, when there is no room left on the Internet for such important things as Martha Stewart’s head superimposed on a Baywatch model’s body, or flash animations of singing poo – you’ll know who to blame.

The day may be closer than you think…

frank barbagiovanni

There was this kid in sixth grade.  His name was Frank Barbagiovanni.  A name like that, you certainly don’t forget.  He was one of the more innocuous pseudo-bullies that wandered the halls of Fairfield Woods Middle School.   It’s my thought that the moustache and leather jacket (he’d wear it, even in the summer) are what gave him that air of playground authority.  I don’t know that I ever saw him beat anyone up or pick a fight.  He was, however, friends with Chris Lupo.  If I recall correctly, Chris Lupo liked to put his head through things like cinderblock walls and small children.   He was certifiable.  Frank was guilty by association.    I never really had a problem with him, though. I think we may have even been in gym class together.

Sixth grade was waning – summer had arrived.  Soon, we would be let out the front doors of the school, shrieking with joy into the sun and likely day camp.   It was time for the annual sixth grade, end of the year dance – Luau theme of course.   This was my first dance, and I was ready to woo Kate Simses, the squeaky-voiced object of my unrequited affection and catalyst for newly surging hormones.    There was a minor problem that day; I didn’t own a Hawaiian shirt.  The change of clothes I brought with me to school that morning was “summery”. I figured, well, that would just have to pass.  Momma Rossi would not have bought me something as garish as a Hawaiian shirt. God bless her and her fashion wisdom.   I knew I’d certainly be swank enough to ask Kate to dance to Stairway to Heaven at the end of the event (because all middle school dances end with the Led).   At the very least, I would stare at her from across the room, looking away any time her eyes might chance in my direction.

The magical bell that signals a day’s end had finally rang.  The dance would begin in roughly half an hour.  It was time to get changed.    The boy’s lavatory was jam packed with kids putting on their Hawaiian finery.  Did every kid in my class own a Hawaiian shirt?   My resolve was slightly shaken – maybe my mother had wronged me by not buying that Hawaiian shirt.  I decided, no, she couldn’t be wrong about that.  I stepped into a stall to change.  I felt strange getting undressed in front of my classmates.  Perhaps it was the patch of hair on my stomach that would later help define me as a man and rock and roll god.

The jury is still on out the x-factor that makes an adolescent boy behave aggressively sans warning.  Maybe, through the thin metal of the stall door, he could sense that I wasn’t getting into a Hawaiian shirt.  Maybe he wanted to expose the man-hair.   To this day, I don’t know.  But, something snapped in Frank Barbagiovanni and he kicked the bathroom stall wide open.  There I was, standing completely shocked, in my summery shirt.   Everyone was looking at me.  Frank was laughing and stroking his moustache.   I had to act fast to save face.  So, I bolted out of the stall and pushed Frank with all my might.  He hit the opposite wall.  Not hard, though, as I think I only probably used fifty percent of my might.  Frank launched at me and we went sailing into the sinks.

To this day – I don’t know where Brian came from.  

In a flurry of flannel, backpack, and limbs, my bespectacled compadre erupted from the shadows and had Frank completely lifted off the ground and pinned against the wall. “Holy shit!” I thought as I ran out the bathroom door like a complete chicken.  

And that was that.

My first fight was a cameo appearance.  Frank started it and Brian finished it (I gather).     My contribution was somewhere in the middle - worried about my hair and my summery vestments.  I did ask Kate Simses to dance, though and I’m pretty sure she said yes.