How am I? How was My Weekend? Funny You Should Ask

Back at work after a four-day weekend people asked me how I’m doing, how was my weekend and I said I was fine and my weekend was great or that I was great and my weekend was fine and truly my body feels fantastic and on the weekend I celebrated Thanksgiving with various family and I went to a basketball game and to a movie and had runs of seven and nine miles and all that was all good but lord did I suffer.

Depression. The whole time. Managed to distract it at times for a time but it was there always and persistent like being in pain and that pain is still with me and is awful and the experiment of not taking meds is officially over that shit did not work as I can tell by my monumental sorrow and misery that has been all encompassing for five full days non stop thank god it allows me to sleep and to have nice dreams and I was able to teach today like I was the world’s happiest man which I’m not unfortunately: “Fountain of sorrow, fountain of light, You've known that hollow sound of your own steps in flight” sang Jackson Browne but that song was not about the unceasing pounding of melancholia and the way depression wraps its tentacles around your brain and surely this cannot go on forever but I’ll be damned if I can remember what happiness feels like.

Happiness. There is that in the world. I have that vague memory of genuine smiles and laughter that lingers and kisses and leaping for joy and holding your precious and sitting comfortably content. Ahh contentment. Just to be satisfied to be sated to be all right. To really be able to say you feel “fine” and mean it. But this….I want out of this. Escape.

Running fast it can’t catch me and I can outwit it and I can slap it hard and knock it down and subdue it and conquer it and prevail and live on with out stalking me. Liberated. A free man. Maybe maybe maybe maybe maybe maybe. Some day. Soon even. Gone. Only me and the real feelings not the artificial sorrow created by this monster.

Have to believe, have to conceive. Have to. Have to. Have to. Remember the good times and the hope and the accomplishments and the gifts of life and the ability to dance metaphorically and be me and feel good about it.

This can’t last. Or I won’t. Reckoning coming. The big showdown. Me versus the miseries. No more grappling. Just winning and grinning. Gotta happen.

Exiled From Shangrila

Tracy Stetson

There was a bowl of guacamole on the patio table and an open bag of tortilla chips. Flies were starting to make themselves comfortable around the unattended food. Next to the guac was a pitcher of Kool Aid that had been spiked with LSD. Tracy Stetson was sprawled on a lawn chair wearing nothing but a bikini bottom. Her mouth was open and she was making gurgling noises in lieu of snoring. Her brother — my friend — Russell Stetson was sitting across from me almost at the edge of the pool. His eyes were closed but he was awake. I knew this because every so often he’d say something. “Herringbone is overrated but I’d take it Christchurch, New Zealand with me, grglfph,” was his is most recent utterance. It was part of a steady stream of gobbledygook he was intermittently spewing. I drifted in and out of consciousness. I was pretty sure it was dawn but I had so many different drugs in my system that I wasn’t entirely sure of my own name, which I can now assert is Peter Laine.

We were at Tracy’s and Russell’s parents house in the small, exclusive Marin County community of Woodacre. There were assorted other friends including Stetson cousins inside the house, likely asleep. The parents were in Europe so our generation had the run of the place. Russell referred to the large ranch style house and adjoining property as shangrila.

I clung desperately to my friendship with Russell. As his friend I could stay at shangrila and get high and eat for free and continue my desperate attempts to bed Tracy. Russell and I had met during our just completed freshman year at UC Davis. Russell was one of the most intelligent people I’d ever met and certainly the most charismatic. People were drawn to Russell but I was among the chosen few he selected to spend time with. Deep down I knew that I should loathe Russell for  an effete snob and a total hedonist who cared nothing about anyone save himself. I’d grown up in Berkeley raised by parents and schools that preached social justice. I’d entered Davis trying to decide between going into environmental law, social welfare or teaching. Yet here I was cleaved to a nihilist who only wanted to enjoy his parents’ wealth. For all my admirable ambitions I was still only 19 and had developed passions for getting high and getting laid and those passions were predominant. When Russell invited me for the weekend and I met his sister I fell instantly in love. Okay, lust. Russell was handsome — devastatingly cute to women, as several told me — and his younger sister was even more beautiful. Tracy was not just sexy as hell but wise beyond her 17 years. Unlike her brother, Tracy also had a conscience and did not speak contemptuously of everyone outside her circle.

When the school year ended I’d had an open invitation from Russell to “come hang out.” I think Russell liked me because of my sense of humor and my ability to keep up with him when he started drinking and using. At his house I had to put up with more of the stupid, sexist, borderline racist and classist things he said. I hated myself for it but the alternative was going back to Berkeley and either working with my mom at the juice collective she ran or helping dad at his small law practice where he was setting world records for most pro bono cases. I'd had enough of the non stop political discussions that had had dominated my upbringing, I just wanted to have fun. No one could see to that like Russell, who for all his faults was also a wit.

Worse than Russell were his friends and cousins. There were eight to ten different ones of them around at any given time and each was more shallow and insipid then the next. I only liked one of them, a female cousin, Charlotte, and her only because she was so cute and at all times wore the skimpiest bikini ever made.

But I couldn’t tear myself away from Russell and Tracy and the steady flow of booze and drugs. There was an endless supply of everything  including a garage refrigerator that was filled with nothing but foreign beers. Visitors were always bringing over drugs, cocaine, acid, marijuana, magic mushrooms, uppers and downers. It was heaven and hell all at once.

I was making a little progress with Tracy. Virtually every other guy who came by flirted with her too but I was the new guy so she’d never heard my patter before and I was, as she herself said "different than the usual bozos who come by."

Trying to be fully awake was proving difficult. I managed to stand up and find my watch which, to my great surprise, indicated that it was 9:00. I was physically wobbly and mentally hazy. The only solution was to jump into the pool. First I stopped by the lounge chair and looked at Tracy’s tits. They were perfect. I didn’t remember her taking her top off so this was my first conscious look at them.

“Stop looking at my sister’s tits while she’s sleeping!” Russell shouted. I was so startled that I jumped into the pool without removing my shirt. Ten minutes of swimming made my muscles ache but my head clear. When I got out of the pool Russell handed me a Bloody Mary. “You’ve earned this, my friend. For meritorious service in the face of the hated enemy, sobriety.”

An hour and three Bloody Mary’s later most of us were in the kitchen preparing an enormous breakfast of scrambled eggs, potatoes, toast, fruit and coffee (spiked with expensive whiskey, of course). Russell never helped cook meals or do any chores around the house. He acted put out if asked to pass the salt. He couldn’t even stand to watch others work — “it bores me something fierce to watch anyone labor” he once told me. Russell would instead curl up on a sofa making fun of whatever sitcom, soap opera or game show he could find. “What a bunch of idiots!” Was a constant refrain while he watched TV. “You people are so sad it’s nearly delicious,” was another. Russell seemed to hate everything and everyone, maybe, I later theorized, himself most of all. He had not a drop of sentimentality and was perfectly cynical about everything.

At this meal Russell sat next to Charlotte who was sporting her usual flimsy bikini. She was about 5’11 which made her a an inch or so taller than Russell and I, had remarkably pale skin for someone who never covered up much of her body. But that skin was without blemish and I fantasized about tasting it. She had long blonde hair reaching the middle of her back. Charlotte had not an ounce of fat anywhere that it did not enhance her figure. If I weren’t so smitten by Tracy, I’d have made a play for her. Charlotte was clearly flirting with Russell, many women did — as did some men — but he was oblivious to flirtation and never reciprocated. In fact Russell never spoke of women or sex at all except to make fun of couples, of course. Initially I’d thought he was gay but he showed no interest in men either.

After brunch we lounged by the pool and commenced to get really high. This particular day, lines of coke were on the menu chased by tequila or beer. I choose the latter. The conversation was variously silly or philosophical and there was some local gossip bandied about that I of course knew nothing about. I started feeling genuinely excited about life (thank you, cocaine) and bored senseless by the conversation. When Tracy got up to go inside I followed her.

She left the bathroom door open and so I boldly stood at the doorway and watched her pee. “This a big thrill for you, watching a girl pee, Peter?”

“Watching you do anything is a thrill.”

“Aren’t you sweet,” she cooed as she flushed.

“You bring out the sweetness in me,” I replied.

“Okay,” she said with smile, “let’s get this over with, let’s go to my room and you can have your way with me.”

I was aroused by the offer but said “I hate to think it’s something you just want to ‘get over with.’”

“Don’t take it the wrong way. I mean let’s get the awkwardness of the first time out of the way.”  Tracy took my hand and led me to her bedroom and queen sized bed. I had never known such exhilaration. She took off her clothes in the blink of an eye and just as quickly got under the covers.

I did not hesitate to join her.

I’d only been with a few girls before, starting with Sarah Kowaleski in high school. Tracy was several hundred times better on more levels than I can count. (Modesty forbids explicit details.) There was nothing about her performance in bed that suggested a 17 year old. There was no awkwardness the first time nor the second nor third which quickly followed. After round three we slept in each other’s arms for a few hours and awoke to yet another two encores before rejoining everyone else, which we did while holding hands in the way only lovers do.

Most of the ensemble barely nodded at our approach but as we sat down Russell stood up and glared at me. “Did you just fuck my sister?” He demanded.

“God, shut up Russell, you’re such an asshole,” Tracy said.

“You stay out of it,” Russell said without even look at her. “You did, didn’t you? That’s the only reason you’ve been hanging out here so you could fuck my sister.”


It was the first time I’d seen Russell angry and frankly it was pitiful. He seemed pathetic and lost. As if his anger was something staged that he had to go through.

I glared back at him, still holding Tracy’s hand.

“Answer me!” He screamed, and threw his glass against the house where it broke into pieces many of which flew back towards us.

Now Tracy stood up and screamed in her brother’s face. “What is your problem you fucking asshole, you’re ruining everyone’s good time!”

Russell looked away from me to his sister and slapped her across the face. Hard. I did not think. I stood up. I punched Russell in the face. Very hard.

Russell put his hands on his face, then cupped his nose. He was bleeding. Someone gave him some paper towels. “Get the fuck out of my house, you fucker, you hit in me in my goddamned face.”

“You deserved it,” Tracy sobbed.

“The jig is up,” I said with resignation. I knew my time at shangrila was over for good and all. Within ten minutes I was hitchhiking back to Berkeley.  Tracy had walked me part way toward the freeway entrance and slipped her phone number into my back pocket. She apologized half heartedly for her brother and confessed that this was not the first time he’d lost his cool publicly.

Later that Summer Tracy visited me in Berkeley and one weekend when Russell was away I visited her.

Russell did not return to Davis. I heard that he went to UC Santa Barbara. Tracy and I stayed in touch for awhile but then she got into what she called a “serious” relationship and went to college back east.

I graduated with a degree in Sociology from Davis and ended up moving to Seattle where I got a job doing community outreach. I also eventually got into 12 step programs for my drinking and drug use.

It was shortly after moving to Seattle, six years after hanging out at shangrila,  that Tracy contacted me. She was moving to Seattle to do graduate work at the University of Washington. She also informed me that Russell had committed suicide by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge. He’d never graduated college, never had a job, never had a girlfriend or boyfriend. He’s also never stopped getting high. Tracy told me that Russell used to speak of me but depending on his mood he’d either express regret over the way he’d acted or angrily say he should have killed me that day. Tracy said she never figured her brother out and for that matter neither did he. “He always was surrounded by friends but was never close to anyone. No one ever knew him, not even me,” Tracy told me. I did not find myself at all shocked by Russell's suicide, it seemed like a logical step for him, a person who believed and loved nothing, especially not himself.

Tracy and I became lovers again for awhile. But it didn’t last. I don’t know what does. I honestly don’t.

Larry Has a Problem

If Larry had a gun he’d have shot himself sure as shit cause last night. He'd got Debbie Gloucester in bed and couldn’t get it up Debbie Gloucester was the cutest girl in the school by far and Larry’d had a crush on her since 7th grade when he first noticed girls and how come he had no trouble getting it up for Lottie Thomas and Carrie Woodbine the other two girls he’d been to bed with and it would have been so perfect cause that day that very day he’d scored the winning goal to lead North Point to the championship and now they were eligible for state and his being a hero was now wiped out because of a limp dick which was maybe because he was so tired or so excited to be seeing Debbie Gloucester naked and it would be so bad if she told anyone even just one person and Larry felt like his life was over and he was not yet 18 and wouldn’t be for another couple of months but what was the use if he couldn’t take advantage of Debbie Gloucester actually liking him and liking him so much that she’d let him have sex with her.

Larry just laid there in bed feeling the worst kind of awful a whole new level like he’d never known even when his Uncle Frank had died suddenly right in front of everyone at the July 4th picnic last Summer. This was worse not that he didn’t miss Uncle Frank and feel bad for Aunt Helen and his cousins and all but that was just some other guy dying and this was like his world ending and damned it just made it worse that now way later way after when it was too late he was as hard as rock thinking of how he’d been so soft earlier that evening with the actual naked body of Debbie Gloucester and she was so much prettier naked than he’d ever been able to imagine and now she’d probably do it with some other guy some big football player because Larry had blown his probably only chance when he hadn’t realized until the party that very night after the soccer game when they won the championship that Debbie Gloucester had a crush on him like she said she did and boy when she said that he’d gotten good and hard but back in her bedroom it had been a big failure and he never thought it would happen to him at least not until he was really old like the people in the Viagra commercials because he couldn’t even imagine not being hard for some really cute girl like Debbie Gloucester.

It was 3:00 in the morning and Larry couldn’t sleep and wondered if he ever would and would his parents make him do his Saturday chores the day after they’d won the championship because it didn’t seem they really gave a shit oh sure they acted happy but it was that phony kind of adult smile and congratulations and I’m so happy for you that parents are always doing for their kids especially his parents who didn’t seem to give much of a shit about him caring more about his brother Randy in college the asshole cause he was going to get into law school and so they bragged and talked about him and of course his baby sister Leia because she was autistic but doing so well and everyone was so proud of her and Larry guessed that was understandable and all and she was a pretty cool kid especially for someone who had autism but he was the ultimate forgotten middle child plus they heaped so much concern on his cousins Markie Tina and Kayleigh because their dad his Uncle Frank had died last Summer and their poor mom his Aunt Helen was struggling with it so much being depressed and raising the kids on her own and maybe drinking a little too much and everyone was thinking it was soon to be about time she maybe tried to meet someone else as hard as that was with three small kids and all so everyone’s sympathy and pride was in other directions and Larry just got forgotten like now when they gave him their perfunctory congratulations for being the hero of the championship game.

Larry wished there was someone he could talk to about his bedroom failure with Debbie Gloucester but there was no way he was going to admit that to anyone not even his psychiatrist who he’d been seeing for a couple of months since he’d had a couple of panic attacks although Larry didn’t really think he needed a shrink he went anyway and talked anyway because of course his parents were paying for it and they expected it and he did kind of like talking to the psychiatrist even if the psychiatrist barely mumbled in return and maybe he would have to tell the shrink about his failure with Debbie Gloucester as embarrassing as it would be because maybe there was some psychological thing going on that if he knew about he could prevent it from happening ever again and then he’d feel confident and maybe get another chance with Debbie Gloucester of course he could get another chance with her anyway maybe she seemed okay about it not mad or embarrassed or anything probably disappointed but they did kiss a lot and she sure seemed to like it when he kissed and licked her breasts and she said she’d like to see him again so maybe it wasn’t all so bad maybe it would have been her first time and she was nervous anyway after all she’s only a junior and only turned 17 like two weeks ago and maybe everything was all right and Larry should try to get some sleep he could always call Debbie Gloucester in the morning  and see how that went and he’d definitely talk to his psychiatrist on Tuesday about what happened more like didn’t happen.

Gradually Larry’s thoughts grew more confused and mixed with fantasy and he fell asleep and his thoughts/fantasies became dreams and he slept very well all the way until 11:00. After a couple of bowl of cereals he called Debbie Gloucester and they had a really nice conversation and she went out of her way to tell Larry not to worry about last night because it would have been a bad idea anyway because they hadn’t had any form of contraception which Larry never thought about until she mentioned in the phone conversation so he was almost relieved that he didn’t get it up and was downright ecstatic when Debbie Gloucester said that they’d have to try it again and she was sure Larry would do just fine and was so glad they had finally connected because she’d had a crush on him for over a year now and when Larry heard that he was over the moon with joy and imagine feeling so awful the night before and contemplating suicide that was just ridiculous and then Larry did his chores and hung out with his autistic baby sister Leia who was pretty cool and talked on the phone with his brother who was going to go to law school next Fall and his parents took him to his favorite Italian restaurant for dinner than they went to see his Aunt Helen and his cousins and that was a nice time and the next day was Sunday and he met Debbie Gloucester in the park and they walked and talked and walked and talked and when they stopped walking and talking they kissed and Larry just knew next time would be different with her.

And it was.

In Defense of Woody Allen -- Don't Lump Him in With the Real Sexual Predators

There was a story online the other day about how the actress Ellen Page was joining the many voices decrying the perpetrators of sexual abuse whose actions have been brought to light — thankfully — in recent weeks she made particular note of the director Brett Ratner who is among the accused and outed Ms. Page in front of an entire cast and crew when she was still sexually unsure. However in sharing her story and making her important points about sexual abuse she did what so many and lumped Woody Allen in with the many celebrities accused of abusing women.

Doing so is lazy and more than that inaccurate and more than that a lie. Allen, of course, was charged with molesting his daughter, Dylan, in the early 1990s. In that case there were two investigations but no charges were brought against Allen, he even passed a lie detector test. Indeed there are more witnesses (most notably Allen’s son, Moses) to the fact that Dylan’s mother, Mia Farrow coached Dylan. (This was after Farrow discovered that Allen was having an affair with her adopted daughter, Soon-Yi.)

In Allen’s own words: “I was a 56-year-old man who had never before (or after) been accused of child molestation. I had been going out with Mia for 12 years and never in that time did she ever suggest to me anything resembling misconduct. Now, suddenly, when I had driven up to her house in Connecticut one afternoon to visit the kids for a few hours, when I would be on my raging adversary’s home turf, with half a dozen people present, when I was in the blissful early stages of a happy new relationship with the woman I’d go on to marry — that I would pick this moment in time to embark on a career as a child molester should seem to the most skeptical mind highly unlikely. The sheer illogic of such a crazy scenario seemed to me dispositive. Notwithstanding, Mia insisted that I had abused Dylan and took her immediately to a doctor to be examined. Dylan told the doctor she had not been molested. Mia then took Dylan out for ice cream, and when she came back with her the child had changed her story. The police began their investigation; a possible indictment hung in the balance. I very willingly took a lie-detector test and of course passed because I had nothing to hide. I asked Mia to take one and she wouldn’t.”

Sexual predators have histories; they have behavior patterns. Jerry Sandusky (the football coach found guilty of multiple acts of pedophilia) was a serial pedophile. The greater majority of the convicted pedophiles have had multiple complainants against them. There is no reliable record of any pedophile who acted but once. Yet no other child or adult besides Dylan has accused Woody Allen of sexual abuse. The accusations come from a woman who had no qualms about breaking up the marriages of Frank Sinatra and Andre Previn marriages, when she was about the same as Soon Yi when she took up with Woody.

Moses Farrow told People magazine the following: “Of course Woody did not molest my sister,” says Moses, who is estranged from Farrow and many of his siblings and is close to Allen and Soon-Yi. “She loved him and looked forward to seeing him when he would visit. She never hid from him until our mother succeeded in creating the atmosphere of fear and hate towards him. The day in question, there were six or seven of us in the house. We were all in public rooms and no one, not my father or sister, was off in any private spaces. My mother was conveniently out shopping. I don t know if my sister really believes she was molested or is trying to please her mother. Pleasing my mother was very powerful motivation because to be on her wrong side was horrible.”

“Our mother has misled the public into believing it was a happy household of both biological and adopted children,” he says. “From an early age, my mother demanded obedience and I was often hit as a child. She went into unbridled rages if we angered her, which was intimidating at the very least and often horrifying, leaving us not knowing what she would do.”

Woody Allen is guilty of having been a terrible boyfriend, but to call him a child molester or lump him in with men who have raped and otherwise sexually abused women is grossly unfair. Ellen Page and others should know better and do better.

The

I took this picture last Saturday from Memorial Stadium in Berkeley.

The following blog post was written over the course of three days by a man suffering the common cold.

I’ve decided to title this post, “The.” My presumption is that there has never been an essay titled “The” before. It could be that a grammarian wrote a piece about articles with that name but I rather doubt it. Grammarians tend not to be cutesy with titles. I should here add that I’m titling this writing “The” just for the sake of it. There is no grand scheme, no hidden meaning. The idea came to me on the bus.* Thus ends my titular driven preamble.

I just overheard a couple of my fellow teachers discuss classes in which students are or were bored. They wondered if they were the cause of the boredom.

Let me address that question for them in absentia: yes.

Fact: if adult students are bored in an ESL class the cause of the boredom is most certainly the teacher. There’s no use pretending otherwise.

Observation: If you do not want your students to be bored, stop being boring.

I see teachers abdicate all the time. Their students aren’t interested, they have bad attitudes, there’s nothing they can do. Why bother, anymore? This goes against the essence of teaching. Teachers are in charge, they set the tone, they are responsible. If a teacher “gives up” on a class that teacher has stopped doing her or his job. If you stop doing your job then stop taking money for it.

I have a cold. No matter how old you are (and my god I’m desperately old now, I was looking at pictures I took back when the Rocky Mountains were just forming) when you show up at work with a cold you will get advice. Drink plenty of liquids, I’m told. Have some hot tea with honey and lemon, I’m counseled. Try to get some rest, is proffered. I’ve had more colds than these people have had birthdays. Yet the advice pours in.

I am also offered miracle cures. Sometimes by people who themselves have a cold and have been suffering from it for days despite the sure fire remedy they have in their hand at that very moment. I remember working with two people who once offered me something that “will knock it right out” it had to be good because they added “it’s Chinese.” I assured them that I had taken all necessary measures and that their “Chinese” cure that would “knock it right out” was not needed. My cold was over in a few days. They subsequently both got the cold and shared their Chinese cure. Their colds far outlasted mine. Over and over again through the years they swore by the miraculous Chinese cure that knocked colds “right out.”

You may have gathered that I do not miss work because of a cold. In fact I don’t miss work for any kind of illness because I don’t believe in it. The last two times I had to stay at home from work due to illness I was under orders, once from my boss and the other time from a doctor. I haven’t had the flu in longer than I can remember — and no I’m not going to knock on wood because that’s no more effective than Chinese cures for colds.

This is not to say that I do not miss work days. Sometimes I have a medical appointments and occasionally I’ll take mental health days, which, given the state of my mental health should probably be a daily exercise. But a goddamned stupid cold is no excuse not to work. What, I want to stay home when I don’t feel good? The hell with that, I’d rather stay home while in the pink so I can fully enjoy my leisure time.

Just had a bowl of clam chowder at a famous nearby eatery which is mostly known for its invention of a famous alcoholic beverage. (No names here, I don’t advertise.) It was delicious. One thing I enjoyed about the experience is how it took me back to my youth and going to restaurants with my dear old dad. The waiters and bartenders were older gents wearing white shirts and black vests. They were not minimum wage slaves eking out an existence. The waiter who took my order did not respond to my request by saying, “awesome.” He did not engage in idle chit chat about the weather or local nine, he did not tell me about today’s specials. He was courteous and adroit with the cutlery and the order. One of the bartenders was a silver headed mustachioed man who looked to be in his 60s. He mixed drinks effortless and with a casual sense of boredom. Then he regaled two women at the bar with a hokey card trick. The sly old bartender was really flirting but it was done so obscurely that no one noticed — save eagle eyed fellow geezers like yours truly -- and no harm was done. I liked the restaurant and all those like it in which the workers are professionals who take pride in their work and are good at it.

But I turn my attention now to the recent spate of sexual abuse allegations against the likes of Harvey Weinstein, Kevin Spacey and Louis C.K. (and unfortunately, this is but to name a few). I don’t get it. I really don’t understand how a man can — I mean for crying out loud who even thinks about entering a room naked and masturbating in front of women who have not specifically said, “yeah it would be great if you came into the room bare ass, having a wank. What mind conceives of this as an idea, let alone an acceptable one? And all this unwanted touching. There is satisfaction in that for you? How? What makes sexual contact so stimulating (at least to an old fashioned kind of bloke like me) is that the other party is interested in the same thing you are. The thrill of another person enjoying what you’re enjoying at the same time. What possible fun can it be if the other person isn’t into it? You’ve got to be fucking nuts to enjoy touching someone who isn’t enjoying being touched.

I remember once in college being quite drunk, alone with a woman, kissing. I misinterpreted the moment and made a move to advance the situation and she vehemently protested. I immediately disengaged horrified that I had stepped out of bounds. I felt very bad — and that was when I was drunk.

All of this makes me depressed and lord knows I don’t need any help in that department. I was such a huge fan of Kevin Spacey, one of our greatest actors. I feel bad for him and hope he finds help but I feel infinitely worse for the people he has molested. Shame on him. But as depressing as this all is I’m glad it’s finally coming out. Hopefully we are moving toward living in a culture in which sexual harassment is so routinely exposed that it happens less and less.

Today marks the 39th anniversary of the first date that I had with a certain young lady who is today my wife. There is no man alive luckier than I am. We have been married for 30 years and have two beautiful, intelligent daughters. The fact that this wonderful woman loves me is all the reason I need to get up in the morning. I'm humbled.

*Speaking of busses, I think we'd live in a much more free and equal society if everyone was required to ride the bus at least a few days of the year and I mean city busses. Imagine the perspective this would give politicians and CEOs and professors and hair stylists and entertainers and everyone else. For one thing there'd be a lot more money funneled into public transportation.

What Dreams May Come to Tub McAllen

Johnny “Tub” McAllen had been an all conference offensive guard in the Nineties best known for lead blocking RayShaun “Rascal” Jenkins, the top rusher in school history. Tub was a late round draft pick of the Philadelphia Eagles but was cut early in training camp. He spent the next few years trying to catch on with other pro teams, but the best he managed was a three game stint in the Canadian Football League. By 26 Tub was back in college finishing his degree and within a year of that had a job with an insurance firm where he’d been now for 22 years.

He was home alone this Saturday afternoon, sprawled on the sofa, remote control in his hand, beer and chips on the coffee table. He’d been watching Michigan vs. Northwestern when the play-by-play announcer lowered his voice an octave and told the viewers that word had just reached the booth that former great Rascal Jenkins had passed away at the age of 47. In addition to his college exploits, Jenkins had enjoyed a seven-year NFL career, four of which as a Minnesota Viking and the last three with the Miami Dolphins.

Tub reacted to the news with a loud groan and a shake of the head. He felt genuinely sad. Tub had last seen Rascal Jenkins at a reunion of their conference championship team four years ago. It looked like Rascal hadn’t put on an ounce in his playing days and he sure didn’t look a day over 30. Meanwhile Tub had grown an ample belly, lost most of his hair and suffered from heart arrhythmia.

After checking on the internet Tub learned that Rascal had had a drug problem and died of an overdose. Tub immediately drew a conclusion about African Americans and drugs but chased it from his mind. It was disrespectful to the recently deceased and was borderline racist. Tub had spent his whole life fighting off racist thoughts — a legacy of his bigoted father. Tub thought of his southern born and bred dad for a second and winced, every other word out of dad’s mouth had been a racial slur.

There was another damn commercial on the football game so Tub switched over to the History Channel, there was usually something good there. Sure enough they were doing a program on the German invasion of Poland that had started World War II. Tub thought he’d take a break from football and thinking about Rascal and his goddamned racist old man and watch a little WWII history.

Those damn Nazis and especially Hitler, he was the one. Sure others followed his orders but he was the ringmaster.

There was footage of Nazi planes and Nazi tanks and Nazi troops and the whole blitzkrieg into Poland. The mercilessness of their attack would be awe inspiring if it didn’t result in such human devastation. Tub could both appreciate the efficiency of the German army and be appalled at ruthlessness of it all.

Pretty soon it all started to depress Tub and he decided it would be better to go back to good ole college football. Michigan and Northwestern were at half time so we switched to Virginia and Rutgers. It was late in the third quarter and Virginia had the game well in hand, leading 24-6. Tub closed his eyes and recalled some of his good times with Rascal. Tub still had vivid memories from his playing days, like the time he flattened a linebacker and thus paved the way for a 75 yard touchdown run by Rascal. Tub had gotten almost as many plaudits for his block as Rascal had for his run. The great thing about it was that the linebacker in question was Jeff Snorkle the All American who had gone on to have an illustrious pro career. Tub also remembered many of the plays, including the whole last drive, of the big win over Tech in his senior year.

Gradually Tub began to doze. It was quiet in the house what with Letty — that was Tub’s wife — and the kids — Aaron and Gina — gone for the day. They’d even taken Lassoo — the family dog — with them. Yes it was a rare thing for Tub to have the house to himself. Damn relaxing. Tub soon was sound asleep and in full dream mode. There he was racing down the field stride for stride with Rascal but it was he Tub holding the ball running into the end zone and out of the stadium to his grandma’s house. There she was, alive again in her rocking chair, baking cookies in that old iron oven. Grandma smiled at Tub. Then Walter Cooley appeared, he was one of Tub’s college roommates. Odd to see him in Grandma’s house.

A fly landed on Tub’s nose and he awoke from his dream. He must have been out half an hour or so. Rutgers had stormed back and was only down 24-19 and had the ball. Tub got up to take a piss and then get a cold beer, as he plopped back down on the sofa Virginia intercepted a pass and ran it back for a touchdown. There was just over two minutes left so the game was as good as over. Tub switched back to the History Channel. The Germans were occupying Poland and invading the “low countries,” easily conquering Holland and Belgium.

Tub took a big slurp of beer and thought how lucky he was to have avoided fighting in a war. Imagine being shot at and having bombs exploding near you. There was so much luck in surviving a war. And if you did survive you could do so with one less leg or arm or paralyzed of blinded or emasculated (that thought made Tub groan). And even if you sustained no physical injuries there was always the psychological trauma of watching other guys killed and wounded. And what if you had to live with killing someone? Even in a war for a good cause that would be a hard one for Tub to deal with. Lucky for him his battles were on the football field, his enemy was just another team and the worst that happened was that someone maybe broke a leg or tore an ACL. Yeah, Tub had to admit he’d had a soft life. Soft like his belly. Sure growing up with an asshole father was rough, but at least dad never hit Tub or his sisters or called them bad names. They just had to listen to the awful things he said about other people. Not just blacks, anyone different. There was no use arguing with dad about it either. He was one stubborn SOB.

Tub switched from the History Channel to ESPN where the big clash between Alabama and LSU was about to start. That’d be a good one. In the studio the talking heads made mention of Rascal Jenkins’ death. Such a shame. They showed a couple of his long runs and Tub caught sight of himself throwing the block that leveled Jeff Snorkle. Tub had watched enough highlights to be able to pick himself out. Hell no one ever just shows an offensive lineman, although the Snorkle block got some play. The only time your name was called was when you committed a penalty. The most thankless job in sports but Tub had loved it.

Tub got tired of waiting for Alabama-LSU to start so he switched back to the History Channel. More clips of Nazi tanks — Panzers — crushing everything in their wake. Happy, smiling German soldiers — they’ll get theirs, though, Tub thought — more  German planes reigning death and destruction. Hitler — the ultimate asshole — making his wacky speeches or conferring with generals. Tub was at once sick of it all and endlessly fascinated by it. A commercial came on and Tub hit the mute button. Sometimes TV ads got on his last nerve, especially after a day having the tube on. Tub laid on his back and stared at the ceiling, his thoughts returning to poor old Rascal Jenkins. He closed his eyes and fell dead asleep again. This time he was in a war. Tub sometimes dreamed he was a solider but this time he was a German in World War II. He was marching into France and felt damn bad about it, loathing the Nazis and all they stood for. In the dream Tub desperately wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else but he couldn’t risk deserting and besides his fellow soldiers were all friends. Poor Tub was stuck in this battle. He was conscious of it being a dream but it seemed more real than other dreams he'd had. Tub hoped he’d wake up. In the past he could wake himself up from an unpleasant dream, particularly during a mid day nap, but he was having no luck this time, even though he was aware of the fact that the Alabama-LSU game must be about to start.

Tub and the other soldiers had been marching for awhile when they came under fire from French troops. Tub saw men around him fall to the ground hit by enemy bullets. Others, he noticed, immediately started shooting. Tub stood for a second looking around before he headed to a tree for cover. Tub never made it to the tree. A bullet struck him in the chest and he fell hard to the ground. Now Tub could see himself from several feet above. There was blood pouring out of his mouth and from his chest wound. He was struggling to breath. At first Tub could see himself pawing at the ground and trying to call for help, but he soon grew quiet and ceased moving entirely. Why can’t I wake up from this dream? Tub wondered. He was scared. Not scared in the dream, but really frightened. He could not wake up, all he could do was watch the life drain from himself as he lay in a field in France in 1940. Tub tried to scream but there was no sound anymore. His vision of himself on the ground grew fainter and fainter until it turned into white light. Then, contradictorily, it turned black. There was nothing and there was no more and no Tub.

It was 8:30 PM that Saturday evening when Letty and the kids pulled into the driveway at home and got out of the car. They entered the house through the garage, there was Tub’s car, Letty grazed it on the way by. It was cool to the touch, likely meaning Tub hadn’t driven it all day or left the house for that matter. Letty called for Tub as she entered the kitchen via the garage. The children raced past her and yelled for their dad. Aaron and Gina were 15 and 12 years old and deeply attached to their father. There was no answer from Tub and but when they walked into the living room there he was on the sofa. The TV was on but muted. Gina practically jumped on her dad as she gave him a hug. Meanwhile Lassoo sprinted circles around the sofa.

Tub woke up simultaneously scared shitless and deliriously happy to hold his darling daughter. Tub struggled into a sitting position with Gina draped all over him and exchanged a high five with Aaron. Then Letty gave him a hug and peck on the cheek. She’d brought home a pizza reasoning that her lazy husband would not have made anything for himself. The four of them ate in the living room and watched the second half of the Alabama-LSU game. Tub told them the sad news about Rascal Jenkins. In the back of his mind was the last dream he had. It was awful and Tub couldn’t make sense of it. Anyway it was just a dream. He was alive and well and surrounded by his family. That’s all that mattered. But, he wondered, what is this pain in my chest?