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.