Okay, for now, a format change. Part I will be That was then Part II will be This is now. Part I will carry my story. There will be a line or two or three above the post proper. this will be crap I forgot to put in the previous post. Part II will be ramblings about stuff that happened or I imagined happened spiced with comments on the general condition. There will be music. Right now Part II will get the most as my social awareness grows in Part I tunes will be player.

That Was Then

I missed a little episode in re the big brick house. My parents and my uncle’s family subcontracted the job. They had to put in some sweat equity. One night after work they were on site. They brought a pint along to keep the chill off. My father needed a shot so he gave me his glass to fill and deliver. I did. Along the way I sampled some, like half. According to my amused relatives my reaction was “Hot!!”. See part two.

I was enrolled in St Mary School. I started in kindergarten. Picture a room with thirty or so five year olds. First there’s fear. A figure with weird shit on her head and dressed like a penguin is in front trying to gain control. After a bit the kids realize there’s nothing to fear and begin to do what five year olds do, talk to the nearest five year old. The nun’s name is lost. It was Sister Mary Something. She spent the first part of class putting us in alphabetical order. Something a few of us would take longer than others. I was used to kids. There were already five older cousins in my family. After Christmas Eve with my mother’s family this was easy enough to deal with. Imagine eight or so Polish kinsmen and women doing shots of questionable Polish liqueur and beers. Food was meatless there was always a bowl of stewed prunes along with stewed uncles. We settled in. I noticed something, there was girls in my class. And later, I’d find out, Black people. We began with a prayer, most of the kids were onto that. A few not. They were singled out for special treatment something that was not good. Frequently a kid taken out for treatment would come back to class sniffling with teary eyes. The phrase “Blot your eyes and wipe your nose” somehow stuck in my brain as “Dot your eyes and cross your tees.” I heard that a lot. At first I was stuck in the back of the class because of my last name. The troublemakers worked their way back, too. I learned dirty jokes, that I didn’t understand. I thought some of the jokes were about kittens. I could crack them up. We spent a lot of time back there. Now, about the girls. a lot of the boys in the back row with me had older brothers, being as they came from good Catholic families. They had older brothers to pass on lore or older sisters to spy on. I had neither. They talked about “feeling up” though at the time there was nothing to feel. For me girls fell into one group, girls I wanted to talk to. Later the categories increased to: girls I’d like to hold hands with, girls I’d like to kiss, girls I’d like to have sex with and girls I’d marry. As you’ll see I didn’t get a lot really close. There were subgroups, you’ll see. Maybe I’m objectifying women, I don’t want to. That’s what the nuns taught me. Girls were supposed to keep their ankles, knees, and thighs crossed. Boys weren’t supposed to know anything. They were supposed to meet up after marriage and get it on to make more Catholics. God was in everything. I was taught to read, by their standards, with John and Jean, along with Spot and Puff. In retrospect they were waaay to close. They were friends with Dick and Jane who hung out in the Public Schools. I guess they thought Dick was too inflammatory. We were basically fed math, spelling, English and later history. There was a bias. Kindergarten was an introduction to Catholic 101. It would get worse. They would bear down and I would fight back. Next Catholic school, the early years. Indoctrination and closer contact.

This Is Now

First in reference to the little odd bit above, if we remembered how our first shot, beer or glass of wine tasted like we’d never start. Let’s face it, our first drink was cheap shit. We didn’t know microbrews, single malts or good vintages. Frankly it was made for winos and juice heads. It was all we can afford. GIQ’s (Giant Imperial Quarts) of Narragansett was my teen choice. At a buck ten plus a nickel deposit a willing friend’s father was good for bottle or two. He also provided a place to consume said beer.

Last week I got a catalogue in the mail. I get it every six months or so. It’s from International Historic Films. You’d think they’d have a pretty wide ranging group of films and things. Not so much. A lot were about WWII from the Nazi perspective. You know, History of the Panzers, Battle Through the Eyes of a Storm Trooper or The Biography of Horst Wessel (Google him). The cover is camo colored. They describe each item with a straight face. For those who believe the Third Reich wasn’t enough of a problem they have films about the Soviets and their battles during WWII. The kicker comes at the end, just before the CD’s of WWII German songs is a veritable cornucopia of porn, vintage porn that is. So the WWII/Nazi buff can beat off to reedited early twentieth century French stag flicks. For those not happy in the 2000’s we can throw back to DVD’s featuring soft-core porn stars or “tours” of nudist colonies. There’s one with Jayne Mansfield along with other stellar exposed mammaries. Why not do what we all do; do an on-line search for the female star du jour and search “in a bikini” or “hot, hot, hot” and hope for the best.

I listen to WHCN, The River an old hippie radio station that was taken over by Clear Channel. I like the music but the ads by NRA cutouts every half hour is getting too much. Freedom of Speech is a nice thing. Yes, the owners are a bit right-wing. This is Connecticut, we’ve got a gun law pending. Remember twenty souls in Newtown, cut down by some mutant.

The NRA in a burst of good taste is aiming robocalls at residents of Newtown CT. Talk about brass balls. They’re going to forget because you think assault weapons are a God-given right. When people got on the no-call list they still got dinnertime calls.

The last thing to chafe my butt is those ATT ads where a suit is sitting with a bunch of probably kindergarteners and asks them would you rather play basketball in a stadium or a driveway? The kids all raise hands and say stadium. The lesson “bigger is better” No. I’m bigger, I’m not better. Big Macs are bigger but they’re not better.

Some music:

See you on Wednesday. There might be a supplement tomorrow.