I'm just a gigolo...

OK. The truth be told, I guess I was a gigolo at one time.

I wasn't trying to be. But a woman I had sex with paid me for my time. It started cuz I missed work, but then she kept paying. And at 19 I needed the cash.So I took it.

I got paid for sex. I guess I was a prostitute.

It started like this: I was single and 19 and looking for a girlfriend. Well, I had a girlfriend, I was also looking for sex (sorry Heather). My friends Catherine & Amy moved into an apt. in Groton, an old chicken coop, and it became party central (see the pix on my profile of me with a dumb hat and a maxi pad for context). We would read the Boston Phoenix & check out bands.

One night, we started reading the "Entre Nous" ads - the personal ads - in the paper. This one ad was a 31 yr old woman looking for, based on her description of a young metal kid, me. My friends goaded me into answering her ad, and I did. Then I forgot about it.

A week later, checking the mail at my parents PO box, I got a letter. From the woman, Linda.

She sent me the nastiest, sexiest letter in the history of the world. My 19 yr old ass was hooked. I wrote back, and we arranged a meeting.

Now, here is a weird aside.

Earlier that year, my bandmates & I went to a psychic in Orange MA. Named Zelda. How fucking cool. Zelda. Awesome.

Anyway, when she read my "future" from a deck of playing cards, she told me that in the next year, the names "Linda" "Richard" & "Michael" would be important. Plus a "paper" and "someone in a military uniform."

So, I leave work, (working for my dad, sorry dad) and go meet Linda at the HoJo Hotel above the Mass Pike in Newton.. We proceed to have only the kind of sex a 19 year old man can have with a 31 yr old woman who is apparently the horniest person in the world. Then I decided to complain that I was missing work. Then, Linda decided to write me a check for $25 for each hour I missed. 4 hours, $100. I protested, but she stuck it in my pocket. I found it later. Score.

I then proceeded to see her every week, each time she'd give me a check for $100. She was also married to a paralyzed Vietnam vet, and she said she'd tell him the check was for her tutor. And Linda justified fucking me by the fact that her husband was paralyzed, and couldn't do the deed nymore.

Yes. I slept with a married woman. Yes. I slept with the wife of a hero who fought in Vietnam. Yes. I accepted her cash for it too.

But it was great sex.

Here is the part where the psychic fits in. I thought what the psychic was talking about was my sister, being pregnant by a man named Richard, they lived at the Hotel Linda, and if Kelly had a boy, it would be named Michael, after Mick Jagger. (It was a girl and her name is Elizabeth).

But, even though I don't believe in that psychic shit anymore, I was fucking a woman named Linda, her husband, Richard Michael (they called him Michael) was a vet (there the uniform comes in) and the "paper" part was either the ad in the Phoenix (called the REAL PAPER in the back section) or the check.

So, I kept doing it for a year.

She was strange. She loved that I had my hair dyed blonde, teased up like Vince Neil. She loved that I wore leather pants, or jeans, and a jean jacket with patches & buttons from heavy metal bands on it. She swore that I was large in the pants, and loved that. She swore I got her off and LOVED that. And she always smoked too much weed. So that means I did. And she got GREAT weed. So good that one night at Motel Linda, I was hallucinating so bad I couldn't "perform."

But she was weird.

The final straw was when my folks went away to take Scott to a BMX race in Ohio or something, and she came to our house to F me. She started going on about how she would love to take Scott's V-card at 14, and I probably should've let her, Scott would've loved what she woulda done. But I took pity on him, her being weird and all that.

A week later was my birthday - Memorial Day weekend - and she offered to pay me $500 to spend the weekend at Hampton Beach in a hotel with her, plus another $1200 in clothes for the weekend.

I said no.

I never saw her again. Well, until I saw her ad again in the Phoenix 2 yrs later. But that was one & done.

So, here is my memory of being a "gigolo":

Sitting in the HoJo's restaurant at the rest area on the pike, with only $4 in my pocket for a coffee & slice of pie, at 4am in a snowstorm, freshly fucked at 19 with a check for $100 in my pocket for said fucking.

Life may or may not have been good at 19. But it sure was interesting

My First Halloween Costume

So, in October 1965 was my first Halloween. I was a whole 5 months and 6 days old.

My mom went as Amelia Earhardt and dad was "My Mother The Car".

I was a bag of Gravy Train dog food.

That's right. My folks put me in an empty bag of Gravy Train & took me around.

And apparently this was a big hit.

So, if your first Halloween costume was something embarrassing, just remember:

You could've been a bag of dog food

Why my name is Brian

I was gonna write this myself, but my mom told it better. Plus I had the wrong Beach Boy. I love you Mom!

When I was pregnant with you, we went to visit the Carl Wilson and the Beach Boys who were performing (maybe Hampton Beach... can't remember and we certainly saw them there several times). Anyway, we were sitting in Carl's room making small talk when he asked us if we had a name picked out. I said we had decided on the name Kelly Anne if we had a girl, but had not settled on a boy's name yet. Carl got very sentimental (my opinion) and asked if we had considered the name Brian. He said his older brother Brian (who wasn't on this tour) was such an incredible person with an amazing talent. He went on to talk about Brian with such admiration and love, that I said to Dad later that I liked the name Brian and I wouldn't mind naming our baby Brian, and Dad agreed. We both thought Carl Wilson was one of the nicest people we knew, and we felt if Brian inspired so much admiration and love in his young brother, we couldn't go wrong with that name choice (and a plus was it was a new name....we had no Brian's in either of our families). So after you were born, the next time the Beach Boys were in the area and we saw Carl, we introduced him to you and tears came to his eyes when he heard your name. Your middle name was after my father's youngest brother, Eddie, whom I admired a great deal. (Eddie was 10 years older than me, and I thought he was very handsome and the coolest guy I knew.)

That's about it.... now Dad may remember it differently, but that is how I remember it.

Social Probation

So, I got suspended a lot in high school.

At Groton-Dunstable you could get suspended 4 times, and the fifth time was expulsion for the year. In my junior year, I got suspended 8 times. But I was able to plead 3 down to "It wasn't my fault".

I decided I had to fly straight. Or at least, under the radar. Then a classmate, Kurt, was smitten at the last weekend's school dance with a classmate's visiting friend. Who wore leather pants at the dance. And was monitoring class all week.

Whoops.

That Monday, I started whispering "Go for it, Kurt!" all the time. He kept getting heated. Face beet red. Scissoring his legs under his desk. I had him. Soon, everyone in class was whispering it too. By the end of class, we weren't even being discreet, just shouting it. Poor Kurt was fucking ripped.

At the end of class, we got chastised, and I promised to be nice.

SUCKERS.

I went to my locker, and as ol' Kurt passed, I said quietly "Go for it Kurt."

He leapt at me screaming "I'll kill you!" and proceeded to try. I was taller, yet skinny as a rail. He was shorter, but probably in better shape. But I knew I would be expelled. So I grinned at him and sat helpless as he tried to bash my head through my locker in an amazing rage. He got pulled off of me, we went to the principal's office, and everyone (Kurt included, thanks buddy!) agreed I didn't fight. Suspension, no expulsion.

I got thrown out of class for disruption a lot. I remember that a sub for a sub even threw me out a week after I had been thrown out. The week before, we had been reading Huck Finn in class, and where I sat (in the back, natch) was an illustrated poster of it.

One of the last panels of the poster had a drawing of Huck in a boat "lighting out" and the headline said so. Well, I thought it would be funny so change it to say "Huck Finn Lights Up" and drew a doob in his mouth. Of course, I pointed this out to my friends, and pretty soon those friends – who by the way, would ask me to disrupt class so we wouldn't have to work – pointed it out to everyone except our teacher. So, every time she would say "Huck Finn" I would say "Lights up". And seeing as I was an antagonizer, the whole class soon followed. So, she'd mention Huck Finn, and the whole class would say "Lights up".

Needless to say, she was not amused.

So I got thrown out for subordination, and next week, when the sick-leave sub had had enough, we had a new sub. We fucked with her hard, man. Finally, being an actual intelligent (yet guileless) fill-in, she figured out who was the troublemaker.

Uh, that would be me.

I don't remember what caused it, but she ended up yelling at me, and called me trash. I was FUCKING INFURIATED! How dare she? I WAS the troublemaker, but, shit lady, I wasn't trash. So I had to prove a point.

I proceeded to stand in the trash can & tell her that I would stay with the trash & not go to the office.

So, after a mandatory week vacation from school, and a stern talking to, I came back to find out I was suspended. And expelled.

Which leads me to social probation. See, by then I was in a lot of mischief. But, in Groton, you don't have a Senior prom, just a junior prom and a Senior trip. And I was hooked up. I was going with my girlfriend Tracy & everything was gonna be great. Except for this little thing called social probation. Which meant I was such an ass in school that I was denied from going to my prom. Which, by the way was a NON-SCHOOL event & paid for by my class (who's bank account still had my name as class treasurer on it). I even got a petition signed by a shit load of students and townsfolk and we presented this to the school board. "Blah blah blah. Why punish a kid from his once in a lifetime prom? Blah blah blah."

It was a good point, but they didn't care. And neither did I.

See, I cared about going to prom with Tracy. I loved her and I knew it meant a lot to her, plus NOW SHE HAD TO GO WITH ANOTHER GUY! Well, that other guy part turned out ok, but I WAS MISSING ALL OF THE FUN!!! Plus, I was looking forward to that night-moves, jack-and-diane prom night, special sex! And T & I had already had some night moves anyway...or as we called it "Pathfinder" (ask her for the explanation). But otherwise, they could stuff the pomp & circumcision, um I mean circumstance.

So, that night during prom, I sat on the roof of Scott Johnson's house (not my brother, the one in my class) and we each drank a case of beer (24 at the time) and watched the parade of people who could go to the prom as they went by & honked & wave. We got FUCKED UP.

Somehow, we got a ride to the after party & had a good time. But Tracy went home. And some chunky foreign exchange student tried to make out with me, but I declined.

So, my senior year, after I had (STUPIDLY) dumped T, I was dating a couple of girls, life was good. Then, a girl in the junior class asked me to HER prom, under the guise of allowing me to actually go to a prom, but I think she really did like me. She will remain nameless, for reasons you will soon find out, but she was/is really attractive, and I was more than happy. We actually started a little dating gimmick for a while.

We double dated, and let me say, she looked so fucking cute. Like a little southern belle in peach. Just a darling. Anyway, on the way on to the prom, she & her "BFF" started to take shots from a bottle of rum I had procured. The prom went great. We had a lovely time. Then, on the way through Dunstable to the after-party, the 2 girls started pouring rum down their throats while holding their noses. By the time we got to the party, they were FUCKED to the UP, kid!

OK. Let me tell this short and not too embarrassing to my date. Things got hazy for her & I took her into the host family's house. She had to pee, but I decided to call her mom as I was worried about her, and felt like an asshole for getting her the rum that she asked for (by the way). While I was talking to her mom, apologizing profusely ("Did you pour the booze down her throat?" mom said, and I said no, so she told me to chill...me thinking, yeah but I bought it!) My lovely date decided that she was in fact in the bathroom, and proceeded to drop her lacies and pee on the ottomon. I ran to stop her, and host mom & I helped her straighten up a bit, all the while telling her it was ok. I stood in the front yard with her until her WONDERFUL mom got there, forgiving me all the time, and she left.

Then I went, got drunk, fooled around with some other chick, went to the beach in the morning with everyone else, and trust me, you don't wanna know what I did with some other girl there.

So, what is the point of this story? It was supposed to be how social probation in high school fucked my (sex/social) life. But after typing it, I realize...not so much. It's just a story about how someone who was a "bad egg" spent his prom night(s). Ah to be that young and dumb again. At the time I was so sad to miss that shit. But I guess, like all of the stories in my life, it is different from everyone else's prom story. And I can't, nor wouldn't, trade any of the fucked up stories of my life with anyone.

'Cuz then my stories would be boring. SUCKERS!

peace & love, peace & love...

Brian aka thetypeman

PS names have been changed/omitted for obvious reasons. And I also realize my grammar sucks. I WILL re-edit the grammar. Content stays.

Facebook...short and sweet

OK, here is my next installment, entitled "Facebook"

I joined up to Facebook in February I think. I had no idea what it was, and just was looking for 2 old friends. (OK, 2 old girlfriends). And I found out that I had a lot of people out there who I didn't just know, but were also friends. Some I hadn't seen or talked to for almost 20 years. Some I see and talk to everyday. Some I see and DON'T talk to everyday. Some I am related to, some not. Some I WANT to talk to, some I realize I don't.

The ones I talk to all the time, it started as a "secret" club where we could trade inside jokes, share Stern clips and "Bababooey" songs, but I have also been able to talk outside of the lines with them...and I realize what good friends I have in people like Glenn & Jon. I get to talk to them about other shit than just what we shoot the shit about at work. And they became better friends, whether we see each other after work or not.

The ones I never talk to but see all the time, I get to learn a lot more about them. Who knew (except for Glenn) that Janine is so frigging funny. I didn't, until FB, and now I am glad I "friended" her.

I talk to John on a fairly regular basis, and I would talk about him, but he is mad that I got him onto Facebook! Love ya J.Wadd – WNEC...jibsy radio!

The ones I am related to, I now get to talk to at leisure, so it isn't interrupting them or calling when they can't answer. I don't think I have ever been closer to my brother Scott ON A REGULAR BASIS, but that's cuz the fucker never answers his phone. But we share jokes & funny pix, and clips from Stern & comedy bits like we are sitting around together. And I never would've known his great girlfriend, Michelle, if not for FB. Now I trade comments with her – more than him – and I see that she is a great chick, no wonder he loves her. Hang in there MM! YOU GO GIRL!

But, here is the real hidden gem. Who knew that certain people from my past would turn out to be not just great friends now, but to be wise and smart and insightful and remember so many things about my past. And not just remember them, but remind me that I wasn't such a fucking shithead at one time, that I was actually a good guy?!

I kid. Because I was a good guy. Or I tried to be. And I am trying to still be one. And you know, if I can reacquaint myself with someone from long ago, and they STILL think I am a good guy, and they STILL remember me as one, and they STILL can KICK MY ASS WITH SOME GOOD ADVICE, well, I guess I may have taken the past for granted. And maybe it's not people from the past I should listen to, it's the people they are right now. And thank god for those people. They know who they are.

Gretchyn you just abso-fucking-lutely rule. Tracy, I love you. And Donna, keep impressing me everyday with your coolness!

If this sounds like a stupid "HOLLA" to my "FB chicks", then you don't know any of these people.

I guess what I am getting down to is that Facebook may be corny or a way to connect with old girlfriends. I think it has been a way to let me get to know some friends, add some new ones, and most of all, to renew the old ones that mean it.

And trust me, you'll know what old ones to make new ones again. They're the keepers.

Peace & Love, Peace & Love...

Brian...aka...thetypeman

So what am I gonna do?

Ok, I have a problem. Quitting smoking is making me fat. REAL fat. I am 6'4" and weigh about 205-210. I haven't weighed that much in 18 years. Last time I was here I weighed 235 in 1990, didn't drink, and smoked so much weed that I ate more ice cream than a human could possibly do in a normal way.

And here is the problem. I find being fat more disgusting than smoking. Sure, I needed to gain some weight – I was almost 180, and looked like the drug addict I used to be, without the actual benefit (detriment) of BEING a drug addict. But I am gaining weight like a fucking load.

EASY ANSWER: exercise. And I should, and will. But I spent the past 18 years doing drugs to keep fit, and smoking (which I sadly am doing now...smoking that is). So how do I get back the exercise mode? I am feeling that smoking will get me thinner, but it certainly won't get me in shape. And truth be told, I HATE exercising if it doesn't involve actually DOING something (bike riding, walking to some destination.) PLUS, it is WAY more fun to watch the Sox & the 50,000,000 tv shows I dvr. So we all know what the issue is: I need a motivation.

And I am so disappointed that choosing to smoke is easier than to exercise. I feel so bloated that I wanna puke. And exercising is so much easier & better.

You know, I just answered my questions. Choose health over the easy way out. I guess I just wanted to vent. Thank you doctor, and my insurance will pay you for the 50 minute hour.

Peace & Love,

thetypeman

The Bank Robbery Story! The Bank Hold-Up: Addendum

FAST EDDIE

In fairness to Mr. Eddie Morse, former Chief of Police of Groton, I feel I must say this about the guy.

He was a small town chief of police, which means in my mind he was kind of a shithead. Did he overact? Probably. Should he have considering the circumstances? Probably.

How did he get the nickname “Fast” Eddie Morse? By being so quick to pull a gun on me. He got “let go” a month or so after my arrest. It was allegedly because he had an inappropriate relationship with a dispatcher in Groton. I don’t know this for a fact, but it is the rumor.

Many years later, Mr. Morse ended up a charter bus driver for Buckingham’s in Groton. Our esteemed mentor/leader, P, coincidentally chartered his bus for a trip. They ended up talking about the incident.

Now remember when I said that everyone mentions that I could’ve been killed? Truth is, I could’ve. All I had to do was lower the toy gun in a manner he could’ve found threatening, and POW! Hole through the chest. I would’ve died a stupid douchebag in a side street in Groton, MA during a stupid bank prank.

So here is the thing: when P and Fast Eddie talked that trip, P told me that Chief Morse said in a serious and shaken manner: “I could’ve killed a kid.” He died of a heart attack months later.

Now when I think about it, I am not only glad I wasn’t shot, but think about him.

Let’s say he overreacted, or that I made a dumb move, or the fucking wind blew the wrong way. I could’ve been shot dead. And while it may have been so much worse for me, it would’ve been horrible for him too. Imagine, shooting a stupid 17 year old kid who was fucking around? I bet the guy would’ve eaten his gun within the year. And that is no disrespect to him. I would’ve had I had that on my conscience.

So, to the late Mr. Eddie Morse: thanks for not shooting me, for both our sakes. And if my dumb antics accelerated your dismissal, I am honestly sorry. You were doing your job and I was being a dumb punk kid. I may tell the story with a bit of smarmy sarcasm, but I hold no ill will.

Best wishes to you, sir.

The Bank Hold-Up: Or The Best $25 I Have Ever Spent

The Bank Hold-Up: June 21-28, 1982 (Part 1)

OK. The Hold-Up. Without sounding egotistical, this story is kind of a legend in my hometown of Groton, MA. I can’t tell you how many free drinks I have received when someone who didn’t really know me said “THAT Brian Johnson?” in a bar in Groton. I also cannot tell you how many times that they usually said “You could’ve been killed!” (OK, every time.) It’s a funny story, but there are some parts that are kind of scary & sad. It’s a human story, albeit a STUPID human story. A story of a crazy 17 year old kid who didn’t realize that sneaking up to a bank with a toy gun, wearing army fatigues, in the center of town ACROSS FROM THE POLICE STATION would possibly be a bad idea.

It all started with Massachusetts Proposition 2 ½…

There was a guy, a friend, a mentor, a really good person. He lost his job because of Prop 2 ½, and since we had done a bit of camping & hiking, he & all of his favorite people in my HS class decided to celebrate by going on a week long canoeing/camping, and apparently DRINKING trip down the Saco River.

The crew consisted of “P”, our leader, me, my closest friend John the straight-laced jock, the class macho semi-douche Mike, a guy who I always liked but who was very weird (and is even weirder now) Dean, our class outdoorsy-hippie type Eric (who cancelled 15 minutes too late because of a flu), the semi-anonymous (to our group) creative art-chick Gretchyn (and don’t take that wrong, we got to know everyone all too well that week!), jocky-chick Renee, and class staple Heidi. Sorry if my descriptions are off-putting, so here is mine: semi-geek, semi-jock, semi-freak, really silly, kinda wild skinny kid with a cute girlfriend and who was, dare I say dashingly handsome!?

So, we decided to leave what I think was Monday the 21^st, or maybe Tuesday the 22^nd. We all met at Dean’s family’s house, and while we loaded up the cars & trailer, Dean & I and I think someone else chugged like 2 beers each in the kitchen. I may or may not have smoked a couple hits of a joint. I can’t remember, but it helps to dismiss my stupidity.

Just as we were almost ready, John & Heidi decided that they needed to get some $ from the BayBank/Harvard Trust branch in the center of town. Eric, since he was ill and not going, offered to drive the 2 of them, with me tagging along (3^rd beer in tow). We drove into town and John & Heidi went into the bank.

Here is the first problem. Each canoe decided to have a “theme.” P bought the beer and was the trip leader, so he didn’t have a theme. Mike and Dean (aka SMEGMA) were the “saloon canoe” as they would be carrying the beers. Outfitted in straw hats & old-timey striped bartender vests. John Wadd & Heidi were the “Batman” canoe, with Batman logos sewed onto their shirts (this was before Tim Burton’s Batman). Now Renee & I were gonna be the Star Wars canoe. We drove up to the Nashua Mall (exit 6) the Saturday before, and looked for Star Wars shit. Wouldn’t you know in 1982 we couldn’t find a fucking lightsaber to save our lives. So, seeing an army toy display, we became the “COMMANDO CANOE!” (I also bought the Scorpions “Blackout” that day and we rocked it on Renee’s cassette deck all the way back to Groton).

So, the day we set off, Renee & I had plastic army-green army helmets, I had on a vest I had made of my uncle’s fatigues from Vietman. We had big cop sunglasses. Oh yeah, and we had toy M-16s.

So back to the bank. Wadd & Heidi go in to take out dough. Eric sat in the car, moaning from the flu, and I downed my beer. Then I got got really great, I mean stupid idea: why don’t I sneak up to the bank commando/SWAT style, DRESSED AS A WHACKED OUT COMMANDO WITH A TOY M-16? Fool proof plan, huh? What could possibly go wrong?

Well, as it turns out, a whole shitstorm worth of shit can go wrong. Here is my advice to kids out there today: If for some reason you are 17 and beer-buzzed and dressed as a militia nut, carrying a toy M-16, and decide to sneak up to the front door of a bank that HAPPENS TO BE ACROSS THE STREET FROM THE POLICE STATION IN THE CENTER OF TOWN AT NOON…trust me. It turned out OK for me, but it is an extremely BAD FUCKING IDEA.

So there is 17 year old half buzzed Brian, standing by the entrance to a bank, ambush style, looking through the ATM entrance window, laughing to himself ‘cuz this is gonna be really funny. Oh, it turned out funny, just not for him.

Suddenly I hear “FREEZE! DON’T MOVE!” and I look across the street to the Town Hall/Police station and see some cop aiming a gun at me from around the corner of the building. I honestly thought it was John Dristillaris, as he was a volunteer cop in Acton, and hung out at GPD. “Yeah right.” I said. Then he said “I’m not kidding! Drop the fucking gun!”

I started to get nervous.

“But it’s a toy gun.” I whimpered. Then CHIEF OF POLICE Eddie Morse said “I don’t give a shit, just drop the fucking gun.”

Whoops. I did. I heard the PLASTIC gun rattle like a plastic gun on the sidewalk. I watched the big silver sticker that said “Now with REAL rat-a-tat sound!” as it bounced. “Oh shit” is what I thought.

“Fast” Eddie (as he became know as after this – which I regret, but more on that later) told me to put my hands up & walk toward him. I gladly obliged because of the big REAL fucking handgun he had pointed at me.

What I didn’t know was while I was performing my giggly, too-fucking funny commando assault on the bank’s door, someone went into his office & said “Chief, someone’s robbing the bank across the street.” Now, 2 or 3 years earlier, some guys held up another bank in the center of Groton (Mr. Byer my 9^th grade English teacher had been there) and they fired a shot while escaping. This may have put GPD on alert to shenanigans like this. So, Chief Morse called out an APB to all 9 towns that surround Groton, sealing off the border. “This is not a drill!” I later heard he had shouted. He also called in every cop in Groton, off duty, auxilliary, everyone.

Chief Morse then came out & confronted me. In the paper it said he charged at me with weapon drawn, and I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but Fast Eddie hid behind the corner of the building, as he should’ve if I were an actual criminal instead of a dummy with a toy gun.

So, he ordered me to proceed to the middle of the side street between the bank & Town Hall. It was usually very busy at noon, and I remember he made me walk into traffic, and some woman in a pickup screeched to a stop, looking at me and screaming “OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD” silently behind her windshield. He ordered me to my belly in the street, and to put my hands behind my head. As I lay there he came up and told me not to move. So, I looked up.

There was the biggest, widest, blackest gun barrel a couple of inches from my left eye. “Don’t move or I’ll blow your fucking brains out!” the Chief said. I swallowed dryly and croaked “I, I, I’m not m-m-movin’.”

(Now how does he remember what was exactly said? If you have ever found yourself in this spot, you fucking remember. Trust me. Like fucking yesterday.)

Unknown to me until later, John & Heidi came out of the bank, and saw the Chief aiming his gun at something. John thought, “Oh must be a rabid dog.” So what did my closest friend and another good friend do when they came out & saw me? They got in the car and told Eric to get the hell out of there. Went back to where we were packing and told P that I had been arrested.

Then, the 90 year old auxilliary cop, Scott Emslie came up and Chief gave him his moment to shine: he let him cuff me. Wicked fucking hard. They hauled me up, pushed me across the street & into the Police Station. Fast Eddie slammed me against the counter and in his most total cop-hard-on-biggest-bust ever voice told the dispatcher/receptionist “Book ‘im!” She was wide eyed and stammered “on what charge?” Chief Morse looked at me and said “Attempted armed robbery of a Federal Reserve Bank.”

Ok, he was wrong. It wasn’t a Federal Reserve Bank, but he was HARD over this huge career bust. I started telling them that I was 17 and just a kid and just fucking around and it was a toy gun. The woman just looked at me and Morse said “BOOK HIM!” Just then another cop came in, my toy M-16 on a pencil through the grip. “Chief, it’s a toy gun.” He said.

Morse screamed and slammed me balls first into the counter.

I was booked, and during the process the father of my classmate Jimmy Downs came in from off duty. He had on cop pants but a long underwear shirt and wood chips all over, in his hair (he was cutting wood). Officer Downs knew me and was being really cool. He then proceeded to take 3 sets of fingerprints from me. I asked him why 3. He told me one for GPD, one for the Mass State Police & 1 for the FBI. “FBI?” I cried out, “How long can I get for this?” Officer Downs replied “Oh, 25 to life.”

Ok, then I started bawling like a little girl.

“I’m only seventeen I was just kidding it’s a toy gun I didn’t mean it I am sorry please please please”

Officer Downs, being the cool guy he was calmed me down and said it was just a formality. (NOTE TO SELF: get fingerprints expunged from Mass State Police & FBI records)

I was taken to a conference room in town hall where some cat roamed who roamed the Town Hall freely had made into it's HQ. Stroking that cat's fur while Chief & Officer Robertson (our only Detective & prosecutor for Groton) questioned me for about 15 minutes was the only thing that helped keep me calm. They soon realized I was indeed just fucking stupid & fucking around. They tried to get me to admit to drinking (“I split 1 beer with my friend, that’s it!”) and drug use (“Oh no sir, I never have used drugs before.”) Hah ha! Bought that shit fools!

Anyway, they realized I was only guilty of having EXTREMELY poor judgement, put me in the same cell I had slept in 10 years before when my Dad’s car had broken down on the way through Groton during a blizzard, and let me call my Dad.

Now my Dad doesn’t remember this, but as I said, I remember everything that day. Here is a fairly accurate transcript:

Karl: Hello?

Me: Hi Dad.

Karl: What’s up?

Me: I, I uh got arrested…for robbing a bank.

Karl: What bank?

Me: BayBank.

Karl: That’s MY bank!

EPILOGUE:

So they take me over to Ayer courthouse. Dad meets me there. I get arraigned, but only for disorderly person. They let me go until my court date next Tuesday.

I go on the Saco trip, wowing everyone with my brave tales of BEING A FUCKING STUPID IDIOT. We canoe. We drink. P shaves his beard. We drink more. We drink even more. We come home. More on this week in the next posts. Beware accomplices, I am outing us all.

I go to court next week. My lawyer tells me to “plead to sufficient facts” and ask for a “continuance without a finding.” I memorize this, go before the judge, and enter that plea.

Detective Robertson stand up and says “Your Honor, this is the BayBanks/Harvard Trust case” and then, I swear to fucking god, he winks at the judge like he is in an episode of the Little fucking Rascals.

“Oh. Guilty.” Says the Judge.

I got fined $25 for disorderly person.

And I can honestly say, that was the greatest $25 I have ever spent in my whole fucking life.

A Lapse

Ok, I felt I had to talk about my lapse in judgement tonight.

I was so amped up for the Pats game tonight. ALL NIGHT LONG I craved a cigarette: The adrenaline, the beers, the "party" mood.

Pats won dramatically. In a great mood. Cooking a steak and ready to eat. Then I dropped the fucking steak on the floor.

It probably is fine, I picked it up & washed it off, but my germ-phobia skeeved me out so badly I don't think I can eat it. Plus I washed off the spices and olive oil. So I went and bought a pack of smogs.

I smoked one on the way home and am smoking one now. Believe me, I am extremely unhappy. One emotional night and I fucked my shit up. I am also very angry and disappointed with myself.

So, what now? I stub this nasty thing out, salvage my dinner, eat it with a couples beers and 2 shots of Jager, and go to bed.

BUT...I fucked up. I know I should be a lot easier on myself, but I am disappointed with my lack of will power.

I know anyone who reads this will "forgive" me, but the hard part is forgiving myself. Being hard on yourself is a really hard thing, makes you doubt yourself and your will. But I hope I can get over it.

Now I gotta go salvage a steak..

"Peace & Love. PEACE & LOVE" (Ringo)

BJ aka the typeman

Addictions

Ok, so I swore honesty, no matter how brutal to me, and I guess this topic may deliver. DO NOT WORRY. It won’t be preachy at all.

Now, many people who know me may think they know about what I call my “addictions.” Some may, some may learn something. And they aren’t necessarily what you think. Addiction is not just limited to drugs or booze or cigarettes or even what is considered “bad behavior.” Addiction is usually defined as “Compulsive physiological and psychological need for a habit-forming substance.” It can also be defined as “The condition of being habitually or compulsively occupied with or involved in something,” or “love of, passion for, attachment to, fondness for, zeal for, fervour for, ardour for.” Would you say being “addicted” to the Sox, football, auto racing, music, movies, a TV show, a favorite restaurant, a hobby, your spouse or your kids as a bad thing? If it formed into an unhealthy obsession, of course. But having “love of, passion for, attachment to, fondness for, zeal for, fervour for, ardour for” any of those things would actually be considered honorable. So there lies the question. What is addiction?

Well, I have been addicted to a lot of things. Cartoons as a little kid. Baseball from an early age. Comic books. Baseball cards. APBA Baseball. Cranberry juice cocktail. Girls. Only eating steak. Only eating chicken. Beer. Drawing & painting. Meatball subs from Primo’s on Beacon Hill. White Russians. Cheetah’s in Vegas. Sex. Drugs. My job. My ex-girlfriend. More drugs. Cigarettes. Trying to change my diet. Quitting cigarettes. My mom may agree that she has an “addiction” to diet Coke. My dad would probably agree that he was “addicted” to being a work-a-holic and trying to be a perfectionist. I have many friends & family who have been addicted to “good things” and “bad things.” If you think you don’t know anyone with SOME kind of addiction, well: A) you’re kidding yourself; and B) if you are reading this, you probably know me, so I rest my case.

But, as I said, I am not here to be preachy. Just to tell my stories, to maybe gain some sort of catharsis by relating my feelings and tales. So, here is the truth.

There is no “addiction” stronger than you. You are not “powerless” when it comes to your “addiction.” And, worst news of all, addiction is not a disease.

I am not insulting anyone who uses these tools to overcome issues in their lives.

But it ain’t no fucking disease, dude. Period.

All it is, is a weakness of faith in yourself. It is a lack of belief in yourself. It is a lack of desire to change your life & make it better. A person who lets an addiction ruin their life is someone who is either too lazy to change their life or someone who just doesn’t care enough about himself to want anything better. Disease? Sorry, you are blaming something besides where the real blame lies. The blame lies with you. It is YOUR FAULT.

Back to where this was going…

Back in the early 80s I would do the same amount of drinking, weed-smoking, and occasional coke-snorting as any other early 20s kid (who also hang around the early “Metal Scene” in Boston). I grew a little older, and even quit drinking when I was married. (Still got as smoked out as a reggae band, but that only led to me eating a shitload of ice cream). I got divorced at 26 & moved to Vegas. I was VERY sad about my divorce. My parents are still married to this day (45 years) and my ex-wife’s parents are still (if they are alive – over 60+ years). I was naïve & believed that marriage was for forever. I KNOW, I get it now. BUT, I was MAJORLY depressed and completely disillusioned with the concepts of love & marriage.

So, I moved to Vegas. Started drinking again…WITH A FUCKING VENGEANCE. Took up smoking (at 26 – douchebag!) Slept with questionable women (or I as I like to call them..strippers). And did drugs. Lotsa drugs. A REAL LOTTA DRUGS. And sold them too. Tons of blow, weed everyday, boozing. Eventually even crystal & crack.

My life turned to such shit that I RAN home, tail between my legs, knowing even most of my friends were glad to see me go, no matter how much they may have cared about me. My folks, god bless em, took me in, and really helped. I got a great job, got my own place, lived a great life, even in that apartment that Tracy will say was a shithole (it was).

Then, I made some “new friends”. And through them, I met Paula.

We did our share (and then some) of drugs, then ran away to NH, then fell back into it, then came her cheating all the time and both of us together and separate doing a ton of drugs. I kept getting arrested. Then I got fired from my incredibly great job. Then I did even more drugs.

Then I used what strengths I could find for support. My family. Karl & Chris. They tried so hard to help me and they did, reminding me that a strong, stubborn mind can be a positive. With their help, and the help of 2 men who are my bosses, I got back on track.

Then I started seeing Paula again. It almost went spiraling away again. Thank god it didn’t.

I stopped seeing any people who do drugs, get me arrested, spend my money & use me.

I budgeted every fucking cent I earned. I went food shopping Friday night just so I would have NO reason to fuck up over the weekend, even if I wanted to. I kept my relationships to the minimum a man can without going nuts. I tried to create a cocoon in my apartment, where I could live free from temptations and bullshit, and have a REALLY nice HDTV!

Now, life may be a struggle on occasion, and sometimes I may get depressed for no fucking reason. Hell, I get depressed, and know why, and can see it coming, and still get depressed. But things are good. Really good.

What does this have to do with addiction? It is a story of perseverance and strength and will power. All of which I couldn’t have done without people believing in me. Also, it is a story where you might think I blame my ex-wife or most current ex-gf for my status.

NOPE. It’s all my fault. No one told be to get married as a naïve 24 yr old, who had serious doubts about his wife’s motives on his wedding day, but ignored it as “cold feet.” No one told me to start fucking up & spiraling downward into a 90s drug blurred oblivion, I did it. No one told me to knowingly start hanging out with people who I KNEW were drug users/dealers in Somerville. And no one told me to sleep with a woman 15 minutes after I meet her when she shows up as someone I don’t even know at my apartment at 4am AND STAY WITH HER FOR 6 ½ YEARS. Now that’s just fucking stupid.

Addiction. Who’s fault? Your own.

Addiction. Who can beat it? You can.

Ya just gotta believe in yourself. And it helps if you have some people close to you to support.

Like my Mother & Father. Good words & encouragement from my brother & sister, and even my poor nieces who heard me cry & suffer, but still love their crazy uncle Brian.

I don’t know if I should post this. But I probably will.

Quitting Smoking

I am on the journey to quit smoking. Speaking candidly, I used to do quite a few drugs. Unbelievably, I was able to quit narcotics with what was a lot of work, but mostly using separation from the lifestyle & the shitty people involved, a lot of family support, major willpower (to toot my own horn), and a general "quality of life" benefit of a great job, nice apartment and lots to look forward to.

I am finding that cigarettes are very difficult to quit. The problem isn't physical addiction (I am using the patch) but the fact that apparently I love to have a flaming tube of tobacco leaves to inhale into my lungs & exhale. I can see co-workers smoke, but god forbid I see some tool smoke on TV and I crave a smog. The PHYSICAL ACT of smoking is stronger than the physical addiction.

Another (known) side effect is my incredible appetite. Besides the smoking thing, I recently greatly reduced my Vodka intake to near zero & am sticking with beer. So, I have discovered that the no vodka/smoking program greatly leads to an insatiable appetite. I am getting fatter quicker than I thought, but good news is that since I don't smoke, I can exercise with out having smoke breaks! That's a win. Another "side effect" is that while you can spend $30 on vodka and drink (almost to excess) for a week, buying beer for social drinking standards is A LOT MORE EXPENSIVE per week. And fattening.

Well, I guess the positives outweigh the negatives. Better overall health is better than smoking & drinking too much Vitamin V. Spending more $ on beer is better than drinking too much hard liquor, health wise. And $25 worth of nicotine patches per week is cheaper than $60 worth of cigarettes per week, and healthier. I am gaining weight, which every person (women esp.) think I need, and I do. I can breathe better, and I sleep better, which leads me to be able to exercise - and I haven't been able to in 9 months - and that's good too.

I hate for this to sound like a mid-life crisis, but I gotta tell the truth: I HONESTLY thought I was gonna be dead 10-15 years ago, and I guess I decided to party & abuse drugs & my body to prove myself right. Well, fast forward to 2009, and I am a 44 year old man, and I am not dead, and I have to suck up that young man's rebellion & admit I WANT TO BE ALIVE, AND LIVE A LONGER LIFE. So, now I gotta quit smoking, drinking as much as I used to, eat better, exercise and try to have a better quality of life. My 30 year old self is spinning in his rebellious-ass grave, but I have better perspective on life. And the names Rylee, Deven & Jameson add credence to that. Even Liz & Annie still. Shit even the "old" family Scott & Kelly. Let's not forget Mom & Dad too.

I guess I am saying that is sucks to realize that you actually have loved ones to stick around for, and that you can't just live for yourself. Now, at 44, I have to be responsible. Not just for my self-serving interests, but for R & J & D. And that's self-serving, because I WANT TO BE AROUND THOSE BEAUTIFUL KIDS.

Suddenly, selfish doesn't feel so selfish.

SIGH. Growing up, getting older and gaining wisdom. Very rewarding. But having to have something beyond self-centered ideals, responsibility sucks. I can't be selfish.

Be well. Love your family. Be selfish. This weekend, tell everyone in your family & your close friends that you love them. You will feel good. And so will they.

"Peace & Love. Peace & Love"

BJ aka thetypeman

It's started. Another place for the useless rambling of a fool

I don't know why I started this blog. Ego? Vanity? Creating another place on the net where no one will read what I think?

A little of all of those things. Also, when I post on Facebook there are actual people reading my meaningless bullshit. When I post a "tweet" or blog here, nobody knows so I can spout my opinion without recourse. This blog (for now) is a tree falling in the woods with no one around. It is liberating to talk when you think no one is listening. You feel that you can be honest, candid, and embarrass yourself without repercussions.

As time goes on, I may actually have something witty or insightful to say. For now I will try to not blather on. And, to anyone who dares read/follow my blog: feel free to start shit with me, incite an argument/discussion, challenge my opinions, or just generally stir shit up. I welcome any and all input. I am not easily insulted, and as much as you could give a crap about my opinion, I probably feel as uninterested in yours...but truthfully welcome debate.

OK. Enough to start. Let me post this and link on FB. Wish me luck and welcome to my nightmare.

BJ aka thetypeman