tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43915281751829802152024-03-13T19:26:10.317-07:00No, FearIt's all good. Except for the bad parts.Kevin McReafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890752148188563604noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391528175182980215.post-50430592781035648372013-05-25T20:18:00.002-07:002013-05-25T20:18:56.226-07:00a lifeFuneral today, a man I knew from "the racket" as I heard Marc Maron refer to it recently. Otherwise known as "the program" to those who go and those who just know.<br />
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A nice man, a good man. Family man, involved and engaged member of his community and his church. Spent summer vacations building housing for the poor, loved the islands, loved his grandchildren. Never a bad word to say about anyone, beloved by all.<br />
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The old me might have been harboring a sneaky "but..." around here somewhere, a hard-bitten counter to all this seeming good cheer and life-affirming wholesomeness. It's true that such a tactic can produce more compelling reading. You've got your setup, next comes the expected fall of the other shoe.<br />
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But I have nothing here but sadness for this man's passing, and for his family and friends left behind. There is some sadness too for the awareness that I didn't really get to know him very well beyond the one meeting I used to see him at over the years. I did speak with him after meetings a bit, and always inquired about his health since last year when he became sick with cancer. He seemed so hopeful, so upbeat, never in the dumps that I ever saw. Just a force for life.<br />
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The service was brilliant as the Brits say. Singing, heartfelt memories from the pulpit by his three children, his best friend, his brother - a much more appealing and true and right way of doing things than the "one speaker eulogy" bullshit I'm all too familiar with. Give everyone a chance to say goodbye in public, to pay tribute. <br />
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Nothing more to say but another good man gone. Peace my friend. Peace. Kevin McReafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890752148188563604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391528175182980215.post-56623040612640729222013-05-13T20:22:00.001-07:002013-05-13T20:35:45.460-07:00after the savoy truffle<br />
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Nothing
makes you feel like you’ve officially begun the slide down Geezer Mountain's gelatinous ass crack like having two teeth yanked out in the space of
less than a year. At least the gaps are in the back, in the case of one, and almost
all the way in the back, in the case of the other. In other words, you can't see them when I smile, not that I'm much of a smiler. At least I think you can't. I hope not. Turning fifty is bad enough, I don't need to be looking like Gabby
from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Blazing Saddles. </i>Imagine me <i></i>wearing a dusty old prospector’s hat and speaking in “authentic frontier gibberish” with my already-incomprehensible New Jersey accent. Sheesh. <br />
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The worst part about both tooth extractions was the drive back
home. My dentist works out of two offices. One is right in town - easy walking distance. The other office is an hour away. Naturally both teeth
went five-alarm bad on days when he was not in the local office. The first time I went in on a Monday. The pain intensified all weekend so that by
the time Monday finally arrived I could barely see straight and was ready to
take the goddamn thing out myself with an old ice skate like Tom Hanks in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Castaway</i>. The drive there was not fun, slumped over the steering
wheel and moaning loudly the whole way there. </div>
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Then came the extraction itself. Did I say the drive was the
worst part? Correction: the extraction was the worst part. Definitely. This was
an upper molar, second-to-last from the back. It had already been drilled &
filled many times through the years, not to mention root-canaled and amalgamated to a mere
ghostly outline of its former self. </div>
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First off I needed about 10-15 shots of lidocaine just to get going. For reasons that have never been clear I have some kind of freaky dental nerve
problem, extra branches or some shit, so that practically my whole face can be
numb but I’ll still sometimes feel a jolt when the drill hits. Many dentists
have been baffled. None have provided satisfying answers as to why. Usually I just get a "Gee, you really shouldn't be feeling any discomfort at this point" while I'm wincing in electroshock agony and feeling around on the utensil tray for something sharp to stab him with. </div>
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So I get relatively numb, the dentist starts to pull out the shell of root and…crack. Not
enough left to pull it out cleanly. So he had to pliers that fucker out in four
excruciating sections. Pain so bad I was practically crying. I may have been
literally crying, I’m not sure. But it was bad. And it went on for about 45
minutes, which is a long goddamned time for something like that. I was thinking <i>John McCain had it worse than this and he turned out OK.</i> Not much help there. For one thing, I don't much care for John McCain aside from his valorous service. For another he was half my age when he went through that shit. Finally, this dentist was a friendly, not someone who was looking for useful information from me other than <i>Is it safe to put this claim in with your insurance company?</i><br />
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So the yanking went on and on. After a while I was in a little bit of shock I think. Just floating in
and out of a dazed unreality. I imagined one of my kids having to go through this, the absolute panic involved. But you know how it is when you’re an adult.
Without benefit of the masking hysterics that children can utilize, you’re forced to face the reality that
there’s nothing to do about it but hang on until it's over. The idea of crying seems stupid, pointless. So you just sit there and take
it. But bloody hell. The worst pain by far that I’ve ever
experienced in my life, and I sat all the way through <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Prince of Tides.</i> </div>
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Anyway he finally creaks out the last jagged piece of root, which felt and
sounded like a rusty nail being prybarred from an old oaken door, then he wedges a
massive wad of cotton gauze in there, tells me to bite down hard, and sends me
on my way with a prescription for vicoprofen (which I can’t take) and a fat
stack of extra gauze. "You should expect some bleeding," he says. Hey thanks pal. </div>
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The drive home was hilariously miserable. First I staggered
around the Little China section of town, a middle aged white guy spitting out
blood like it’s Red Man tobacco juice, all disoriented and sensitive to sunlight,
trying to find my car. I got in and started driving. I was on the highway
before I realized that I had nothing in the car to spit the blood into. So
basically I had to hold an ever-expanding reservoir of blood and mucus in my
mouth for an hour until I finally pulled into the parking lot at my Shop Rite
pharmacy, opened the door, leaned out and released a giant spittoonful of what was essentially medical waste onto the little landscaped wedge of dirt between the parked cars
and the shopping cart return area. I remember thinking that if I came back
later there might well be some giant carnivorous plant growing there a la <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Little Shop of Horrors</i>. So far I haven't gone back to look. </div>
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So that was the first tooth. The second one was about a month
ago. This one was not as bad. Came out in one clean, if tremendously painful,
scrunch, so there was that good. Also I'd remembered to put an empty 32-ounce yogurt container in the
car for the long, bloody drive home. This time it was a Sunday. I was grateful
that he told me to come in on his day off. But it was a little on the weird
side. He was the only person there. No assistant, did absolutely everything all
by himself. It was a bit unnerving at first but it went fine. I was so tense after the last tooth, I started having these odd horror-movie thoughts like <i>Is he going to ask himself for the dental instruments and then zip around behind me on his wheeled office chair and say "Here you are, doctor!" </i>But he was cool.<br />
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Actually we weren’t
completely alone. His wife and one year old son came in just as we got going.
The boy would toddle down the hall, stop at the operating room and peer in at
me. I thought it might be a bit much for a kid that young to be seeing his dad,
bloody metal torture implements in his hand, standing over some strange
blood-covered man. But apparently I was the only one who had this concern. The
child was expressionless. He just looked in the room and then kept moving. His
dad said nothing, just went about his work. I figured hey, your dad’s a
dentist, you’re gonna see shit like this, might as well get used to it early. </div>
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The big question in my mind was, Why was there pain at all
since both of these teeth had had root canals? The answer was infection. The
first tooth had cracked under the gum, and that’s where the infection
developed. But when the second tooth came out in one piece I was confused. How
did the infection get in if the nerve-root was dead and filled and the
tooth-root was not cracked? Turns out I had a tiny hairline groove that ran
along the tooth-root, which he showed me later after the tooth was out. This
tiny groove allowed food particles to get under the gum. He said no amount of
brushing and flossing could have prevented it. This brings to mind two
thoughts. One, this may partly explain why I’ve had so many cavities in my
life. And two, I may be in for some more molar yankin’ in the future. Something
to look forward to. I’m wondering if the missing teeth will be evenly
distributed. As of now I’m down to 28 teeth. Not 32 minus the four wisdom
teeth, but the two upper wisdom teeth and now these two upper molars, one from
each side. So now I’m picturing myself gradually losing all my upper teeth
while keeping all the bottom ones, and end up looking like some weird deep-sea
angler fish. </div>
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Or like my dad. He lost all his uppers when he was like 18
or 19. Smashed in the face with a hurling stick – during a game of hurling, at
least, not while getting jumped in a Dublin street robbery by some drunken
mick. The guy who hit him went on to become a Jesuit priest. Funny. </div>
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I used to think it was awful, going through his whole life
like that without any upper teeth. But Dad always saw the positive side of
things. “It’s not so bad once you get used to it” – true of many aspects of
life, maybe. “Actually it’s a lot easier to take care of my teeth this way,”
he’d say. I’d watch him at the bathroom sink. “Observe.” He’d remove the single
plate of teeth, brush his gums underneath, then take the toothbrush and brush the
hell out of the plate of dentures like he was scrubbing potatoes in the sink
with a vegetable brush. “Look,” he’d say. “I don’t even need to floss them!”
Then he’d rinse the teeth off and plop them into a glass of water and put them
on his night table like he was already the senior citizen he would one day
become.<br />
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So there it is, my two-molars-yanked-in-one-year story. Not as compelling a story as it seemed at the time. But I figure any story with that much blood in it -- especially when it's <i>my</i> blood -- simply has to be told. At least according to Tarantino, although really what the fuck does he know?<br />
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Kevin McReafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890752148188563604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391528175182980215.post-10125803407236609102013-05-13T19:54:00.001-07:002013-05-13T19:54:03.515-07:00testtestingKevin McReafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890752148188563604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391528175182980215.post-75674811291270417822010-05-19T19:04:00.000-07:002010-05-19T19:23:35.847-07:00The Power of Positive Not Giving a ShitThe upside of living with a sex addict is that when she comes home after getting together with ____ and is in a good-ish mood (for a while) all giddy and happy (for a while) with that glow of post you know what, but then starts to get all cranky and mean and nasty with the kids and the spouse and herself and everyone and everything and every idea and story and song and thought and concept in the universe because she hates herself and hates ____ and hates them and you and it and everything, at least there's no <span style="font-style: italic;">him</span> for you to hate, to despise, no need to plan on ripping his fucking lungs out through his nostrils because there is no <span style="font-style: italic;">him</span>, just a series of faceless nameless _____, a lifeless nothingness floating out in space like the background radiation from a star that exploded long, long ago, long before you were in the picture, before you even arrived at this peculiar part of the galaxy with your busted up ship and your practical wisdom and your big ideas about intergalactic harmony. So there's no one to hate. It's a wasted emotion in any case, but particularly when there's no love lost, none that's gone missing. No matter. Can't spend what you ain't got, so the song goes, can't lose what you never had.<br /><br />Anyway there's word from Tralfamador that the spare part is on its way. Just have to hang in there a little longer is all.Kevin McReafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890752148188563604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391528175182980215.post-18482398134360473362010-05-09T20:46:00.000-07:002010-05-09T20:52:07.187-07:00the wordAt night sometimes you lie there and consider how strange it is to feel the same way you did years ago when you were lost and bewildered and felt like you were never going to grow up. That was something other people seemed to do but it didn't seem to be your lot. Because you were so fragile and so full of hope, while everyone else seemed so cynical beyond their years, so sure that it was all a crock of shit, that faith and hope were for weaklings, mama's boys, losers. But you knew that if you lay there long enough the words would come to you, even if only from somewhere inside yourself, but clear enough that you knew they weren't your creation alone.<br /><br />"It's OK, everything's going to be OK."<br /><br />And you knew that it would be. And you know that it is.Kevin McReafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890752148188563604noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391528175182980215.post-32394136357734066942009-12-13T21:27:00.000-08:002009-12-13T21:33:21.039-08:00It's nothing, just a small symbol of our loveReally, it's nothing. <br /><br />Really. <br /><br /><br />Happy anniversary darling.Kevin McReafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890752148188563604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391528175182980215.post-68390263097353119022009-12-05T19:39:00.000-08:002010-07-09T20:51:35.972-07:00everEver save your favorite part of dinner for last but then be too full to eat and/or enjoy it?<br /><br />Ever have a great idea for a story but fail to write it down thinking there's NO WAY I'm gonna forget THIS one, but then later you forget?<br /><br />Ever hold your tongue when someone was behaving like an asshole, but then decide to say something because you'd be angrier later if you didn't say anything, but then the person was not only unapologetic but gleefully belligerent about their part in it, and then you felt even worse because you had no further options except walking away or doing something stupid?<br /><br />Ever yearn for someone with an ache so deep and awful that you felt like there was maybe something wrong with you, something medically wrong, psychologically wrong, something just seriously not right with you? And then you ignored every shrieking flashing red light proximity alert warning your body mind and soul were blasting you with to <span style="font-style: italic;">get the fuck away from this person as fast and as far as you possibly can</span>? And then spent the rest of your life feeling like some doomed character in a Greek tragedy who sees with blinding hindsight, too late, that he'd stepped in the one unforgivable but inevitable shitpile of hubris, and now you were to pay and pay and pay until you died and the crows ate your useless eyeballs in the merciless morning heat?<br /><br />Yeah me neither.Kevin McReafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890752148188563604noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391528175182980215.post-90363996926238867202009-11-28T20:13:00.000-08:002009-11-28T20:23:00.379-08:00Overheard at the gym“…but they can’t handle the fact that he’s a young black man who’s got his thing together.”<br /><br />I smiled silently on the other side of the wall. Brother whitey giving it up for the Brother-in-Chief, in this very red part of a blue state (I saw a bumper sticker today that read GIVE ME BACK MY MONEY; YOU CAN KEEP THE “CHANGE”). <br /><br />“That’s the part I can’t stand. They have no reason to hate him, but they do, just because he’s not what they’re used to. A black man with his thing together, they’re jealous and resentful, so they go after him in the media. It’s cowardly.”<br /><br />I tied my laces and got up to leave, nodding, feeling a bit better about this place where I live with such frustration, with so many reservations. <br /><br />“It’s like Jesus Christ, you know?” His lockermate snorted, but I knew what he meant. “Another young guy with his thing totally together who challenged the way things were, but they couldn’t handle it so they went after him.” Still his friend chuckled derisively.<br /><br />“Hey, I’m not saying Tiger Woods is on the same level with Jesus Christ, that’s not what I’m saying.”<br /><br />Oh. I thought he was talking about someone else. Someone, you know, with his thing together. Not that Tiger doesn’t have his thing together.<br /><br />“I just think they should give the guy a break, that’s all.”<br /><br />Yeah OK. Give him a break. A car accident, is that what it was? Or marital trouble, he’s seeing someone on the side, something like this? M-kay. He’s a golfer. Good player, seems like. One of the best. Now, some personal problems. Uh-huh. <br /><br />Righto, well that’s about it for the world of sport. Next time I’ll tackle the world of supermarket checkout line hostility. I’ll tackle the subject, not the guy in line behind me. Which I almost did. Actually I almost brained him with a frozen turkey. But that’s another story. <br /><br />At least locker room guy stood up against the unfairness of bigotry. I still feel a little bit better about living here. Not quite as much but a little. It’s something.<br /><br />I think they should give that other guy a break too.Kevin McReafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890752148188563604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391528175182980215.post-32533551954748082982009-11-27T20:58:00.000-08:002009-11-27T21:02:10.200-08:00No one gets offended by the bluesA low-pressure wave of singed ricotta pushes ahead of the slice. The translucent paper plate pulls the scent down with it in gently swirling vortices that fan out around the tabletop as plate meets formica with a greasy muffled thwack.<br /><br />Outside a cold erratic wind whips up and down the main drag of the barrier island shore town, summer long gone now, the deep autumn creaking under its own ponderous weight as it prepares to surrender to winter’s biting lockdown.<br /><br />Phh-TOONK! Phh-TOONK! Phh-TOONK! The carpenters’ nail guns pierce the abandoned neighborhood’s howling silence, the second story deck rough-in almost complete, let’s wrap this shit up for the day and get the hell out of here.<br /><br />Pizza guy doesn’t belong in his store. He’s too smart, too nice, too well-educated, too normal, to be doing hard time on The Rock. It’s the same with so many here. What unforeseen turn of the wheel tossed these shorefolk onto the sand how many years ago now? And how do you get off after becoming a kinfolked citizen of the Island of Misfit Toys? After riding in on a bent wave in a thick fog, broken board propped in the corner, prop-like, an S. S. Minnow for a landlubbing lungfish? After the realization sinks in that no one there fits in and never will? And what then, indeed, after finding no greater refuge with the Mainland Misfits, Inland Division?<br /><br />“Is that satellite radio?”<br /><br />“Yeah, XFM” he says. “I just keep it on blues all day long. No trouble, no complaints, no arguments. Not everyone like the Dead,” and suddenly there it is, the Garcia effect, like a sighting of Christ on a tortilla stone: longish unkempt hair and beard, good buncha extra pounds around the middle, a good-natured but resigned bemusement about the mouth, oversized solid color T-shirt. <span style="font-style: italic;">Jerry’s wearing dark blue today, check it, maybe they’re gonna do Dark Star...</span><br /><br />“No one gets offended by the blues.”<br /><br />Half a wry smile and he turns, half a swipe at the counter, rag dancing in a careless whirl, 100% organic cotton dervish in ecstatic pirouette as the bay window darkens with just a touch, blue turned to grey, kinda suitable anyway, the low rumble pitter-pattering eastward across the bay.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The wheel is turning and you can't slow down</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You can't let go and you can't hold on</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You can't go back and you can't stand still</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">If the thunder don't get you then the lightning will</span><br /><br />Then the lightning will.Kevin McReafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890752148188563604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391528175182980215.post-47677505102548300372009-11-26T21:36:00.000-08:002009-11-26T21:48:16.061-08:00releefThe Target brand ultra strength antacid/calcium supplement dissolved down his esophagus, a fizzing cascade of assorted-fruit-flavored reprieve. The acidic burn was cooled, the cool spread out from the center of his chest like a sudden downdraft of high pressure punching a hole clear through a thick fog to bestow a clean pocket of sunshine on a lonely child's soggy front yard. The relief brought tears, a physiological reaction. <br /><br />Lately it happened a lot, like ten times a day. The agita, motherfucker, that shit hurt. But why? Why all of a sudden so much acid, so much stress? The lack of sleep was nothing new. The crappy diet, likewise. <br /><br />Hang on. Got to put a fire out. Floss, change the typewriter ribbon etc.<br />\Kevin McReafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890752148188563604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391528175182980215.post-84008905333585244522009-11-25T20:48:00.000-08:002009-11-25T20:56:28.522-08:00the origin of speciesNo, not Darwin. I found <a href="http://narcolepticsentinel.blogspot.com/">this link</a> in an old word document. I created it before I set up my MySpace account as the narcoleptic sentinel. Guess I forgot about it. I see from the first (of a grand total of two...) that I did this blogger one just before my second kid was born three months prematurely. Things got a tad busy as you might imagine, which explains why I never got back to it. I love the comments -- all spam!<br /><br />So in the event anyone is actually reading this, let me know what you think about the writing challenge. I need a challenge or I can't ever seem to write. It's fucked up but that's the way I am. I hate pressure but I need it to write, or to do much of anything at all. It's the only way I've ever gotten anything accomplished. Pressure. Grr. But hey, whaddya.Kevin McReafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890752148188563604noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391528175182980215.post-14768026135598415832009-08-06T07:26:00.000-07:002009-08-06T07:27:11.417-07:00EireMaybe...Kevin McReafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890752148188563604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391528175182980215.post-15094217543864524112008-04-07T21:25:00.000-07:002008-04-07T21:40:29.808-07:00There Will Be MudTwo little boys. Three days of rain. One poorly-tended lawn.<br /><br />Oh, yes: There WILL be mud.<br /><br />In your hair. In your ear. Embedded deeply into the very fibers of your hideously tacky Dr. Huxtable sweater. OK, so it's not all bad news.<br /><br />But what about the cheddar bunnies? Don't tell me there'll be mud on them, too?<br /><br />Hey kid, listen up. You want mud-free cheddar bunnies, maybe you oughtta stay home with your mama. In fact, if you're too afraid to get a little mud on you maybe you shouldn't even get out of bed in the morning. This here's no country for clean men, Jedediah. You want clean, you stay the fuck away from my mud puddle. I staked a claim on it when you were still wiping strained peas off your face. You know, ten minutes ago. Right after we had that little dust-up over the last raspberry popsicle. I guess you thought I'd forgotten that, huh. <span style="font-style: italic;">Infant. </span><br /><br />All I'm saying here is, you want to mess with me, you're going to get dirty. I mean as in all the way, face down in the filthy, muddy muck, bro. That kind of dirty. I stand over you and laugh, deranged scent of victory flaring my nostrils.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I drink your chocolate milk!!!</span>Kevin McReafhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890752148188563604noreply@blogger.com2