OBG

They called him OBG, because he’s the old guy who goes to the bathroom at least once an hour.

How old? They struggled with that; they were young. How young? In their early to mid-twenties, that period before things cease functioning (peckers, prostates, lungs, heart) and start dropping (breasts, butts, faces, and arches).

(They knew, intellectually, but still (and really, on the periphery of their awareness) that they were conditioned with a sense of the ideal and normal. They knew that others had body failures before they were twenty (they’d seen it on the web), but none (of those types) came to their coffee shop or university classes, and none (that they knew) were ever seen. Out of sight, out of mind, you know. Although, to be fair, they were self-aware enough to know that they were experiencing health privilege (although it wasn’t thought of that way). (Hey, you were either healthy, or you weren’t.) They were unaware (as the young and healthy often are) of the many changes quietly being made beyond their control in their young, healthy bodies.)

OBG knew (from his casual observance) (hell, it wasn’t hard) that they’d noticed his habits. With that shrugging air of one who’d lived and survive, he dismissed whatever they thought. Into the bathroom he went, first blowing his nose (damn sinuses) (he hated blowing his nose in public) (just didn’t want to bother others), and then stretching (because that fucking sciatic nerve was getting inflamed again and despised sitting in those chairs too long). (Yeah, he shouldn’t sit in those chairs so long, reading his Kindle and browsing the net, habits that he’d started when he’d retired, ten years before, which, in turn were begun by habits he cultivated in his twenties, when he was in school, like these servers who watched.) (Do you see the circle that he sees, the circles of behavior and culture, and how linked they are, like the Olympic logo?)

Then, because he was there, he went ahead and sat down and pissed (not that he had to go, but he was there, so…), flushed, and washed his hands. In all, four minutes of his life had passed, but it all adds up, you know?

A Surprising Twist

It seems like a surprising twist, but it probably isn’t. It’s probably one of those oft-experienced, universally known, but rarely mentioned phenomena of life. I will mention it in passing because it strikes me now.

Every night brings something different that I miss from the past. Tonight brings memories of sitting around, listening to music with my friends. I’m listening to some old live Clapton and remembering times and places, but it’s such a solo act.

Yet…this is how it is for most of us. We slip from childhood to our teenage years, to first loves and first jobs, to relationships and marriage, and then find ourselves looking back, remembering, think, and wondering.

I guess it’s not that surprising, or a twist, after all.

Fourteen

A beard and mustache like smudges on the face

long and thick brown hair pinned up to play baseball

faded bell-bottom blue jeans with a large hole in the rear

and no undies underneath

white high-top canvas shoes

hand-painted fluorescent orange

a worn white tee-shirt with a green marijuana leaf in the center of the chest

under by a torn military fatigue shirt signed by everyone met

worn open like a jacket

quoting Asimov, Clapton, Kirk, and Clemente

reading Leary, Chekov, Dumas, Tolkien, Heller, and Knowles

listening to the Stones, Humble Pie, Cream, Jimi, Janis, and Bob

dancing to Sly, Chicago, Three Dog Night, and EW&F

runnin’, walkin’ and bikin’ to go anywhere and everywhere

through any weather and across any terrain

That’s the fourteen-year-old that I remember.

Monday’s Theme Music

Let’s take a little Journey this Monday morning, looking back at 1985 via “Only the Young”.

In the shadows of a golden age
A generation waits for dawn
Brave carry on
Bold and the strong

Only the young can say
They’re free to fly away
Sharing the same desires
Burnin’ like wildfire

They’re seein’ through the promises
And all the lies they dare to tell
Is it heaven or hell?
They know very well

h/t to AZLyrics.com

Sparked by the line, “Only the young can say,” the song was streaming through me this morning. Being old – well, technically advanced middle-aged (AMA) has some advantages, but I think that being young can offer some, too. Like, it’s easier to start over and look forward.

But then again, we can channel Frank Sinatra in our streams and stay young at heart. That must count for something so I added it. Released in 1953, “Young at Heart” is three years older than me. LOL

Stay young.

 

 

The Rain Today

Ashland’s rain today reminded me of the Philippines. I was stationed with the 3rd Tactical Fighter Wing, part of 13th Air Force and Pacific Air Forces, at Clark Air Base in the Philippines in the mid 1970s. It was my first overseas duty assignment. Being low in rank, it was a short tour – fifteen months – and my wife was not allowed to be there with me.

I had a lot of free time outside of my shifts. I used to run almost every day, then, in addition to my walking. I typically ran three to five miles a day. The weather never felt cold to me. Sometimes, the rain felt warm.

I was comparing my Philippines memory of rain to our Ashland rain today, trying to think of how I would describe this rain. This isn’t the monsoon sort of downpours that I knew in the Philippines, South Carolina, West Virginia, Okinawa, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Germany, or England. We rarely seem to receive that sort of rain here. Nor is it the milder, lighter rain, like a shower or light rain that I often experienced in Half Moon Bay. This is just…rain.

Our athletic attire is a lot better in 2019 than it was in 1976. Back then, all my athletic clothing was cotton. When I was running in the rain, it’d get sopping wet, heavy, and start sagging and falling off. My socks then were athletic top socks that came up to my knees. They would slide down to my ankles. I wore Adidas running shoes, and head and wrist sweat bands. The wrist bands would start sliding down over my hands, and the head band would drop over my eyes.

I’d bought the bands for playing racquetball, and they were most definitely required in a a racquetball court’s humid confines. They didn’t seem to have air-con nor fans back then.

I used to run the one and a half miles between my barracks and the gym, play racquetball, and not infrequently run home. I’ve always been optimistic, sometimes stupidly so. I once saw it starting to rain in the Philippines and took off running for the gym to play racquetball. I was soaked when I arrived. Water pooled around me. There was no way I would be playing racquetball in those clothes. I had no choice but to run back to the barracks, holding up my short blue Adidas shorts with one hand as I ran.

Ah, good times.

Such Weird Dreams

I haven’t been posting about my dreams in the last few weeks. There’s a plethora every night, but these two from last night seem so strange, I felt driven to share them.

In the first dream, I was at a competition. Dressed in dark swimming trunks, my team mates and I were standing in water up to our chest. I was in my mid-teens and white; the others were likewise young, but were people of color, and all male. No females were in this dream.

For our competition, we had to launch some small toy projectiles on the sandy sea floor. I’d been experimenting with it and developed some insights into how to set up the little plastic launcher for the best results. The launchers shot out small items like pebbles, marbles, bottle lids, and crayfish. They didn’t go far, and nothing was harmed.

What was odd to me as we practiced was that we were standing up in water to our chest, but bent down to the ocean floor to set up and launch things. We did that without putting our heads under water. I realized that in the dream, and keep thinking about it: how were we bending down in four feet of water without getting our heads wet?

The second dream found me experimenting with missile launchers. These were supposed to provide trains proactive protection. I was at a very large conference/school working on this. Working alone, I pursued ideas that were outside of my realm about taking one product and using it in an unplanned way.

It worked! Excited, I attended a large morning briefing where the top guy was being briefed on projects. After the formal briefings finished and the meeting was breaking up, I made my way to the top exec, sat down and told him my plan, how I tested it, and how it worked.

He was impressed. “Really,” he said. “You did this? I’m surprised I didn’t hear about this.”

Eagerly I explained how I’d procured and modified the parts, and then tested them…

…in my dream….

The admission and realization stunned me.

He was staring at me. “You did it in your dream?”

“Yes.” I was mortified. “I tested it in my dream.” I almost mumbled the words.

“But you haven’t really tested it.”

“No.” I stood.

“I thought I would have heard about it,” he said, and then turned to go on with other things.

Humiliated, I left. I found a place to sit and think alone, but people kept looking in or passing by me. I knew from their glances and snippets of comments that they’d heard about what had happened. They were stony-faced and silent when they looked at me, and avoided meeting my eyes.

I vowed to leave there. Day was beginning. The main body of workers were arriving. The place was noisy with busy, energetic people.

Dejected and angry, I didn’t want to be there. Packing up a box of personal items, I went and found one of my team members. I called her to me. She was just beginning to start her work day. “I’m going home,” I told her. “If anyone asks, that’s where I’m at.”

I hid my face when I spoke to her so that no one could read my lips, and spoke softly so others couldn’t overhear me. Those circumstances forced me to repeat what I said before she understood.

She was concerned and sympathetic, asking if everything was okay. I didn’t want to explain, and left without saying anything more. As I did, I kept thinking, it was only a dream. I’d confused it with reality, and had acted upon a dream like it was real. That worried me about my mental state, but also worried me about how others perceived me, and what was in store for me for my future.

 

Fall Slipstream

It’s a gorgeous fall day, smoke-free, with a cloudless blue sky. Our sun is bright, but the wind presents a chilly edge as it toys with leaves, tearing them from trees and sprinkling them over the streets, sidewalks, and yards. News, worry, and politics are aside. Memories of days like these are pulled from my youth in Pittsburgh.

It’s the weekend. At last! Freed for a day from the teachers’ drones, studying, quizzes, and tests, we’re out in the streets, chatting about girls, music, sports and television, bullshitting each other, John mocking Rick, complaining about school, wandering around, hanging around, playing football in the street. 

Halloween is coming up. What are you going to wear?

Thanksgiving is next month. Thanksgiving, that amazing feast – stuffing, turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy – and pies! Pumpkin! Apple! Or maybe cherry. With whipped cream. Family will be over. It will be warm, noisy, and crowded. But, wow, the food.

And then there’s Christmas. What do you want for Christmas?

The simplicity makes me sigh. That was our future. But we would tell each other –

I can’t wait until I’m older. 

I can’t wait until I have my license.

I can’t wait until I have my own money.

I can’t wait until I’m done with school.

I can’t wait until I’m out of here.

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