Sunday, March 26, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Steve Bagley Arrived alone at the dawn of December. Acquired cheap digs with a cast-iron wood stove and ample room for my gear. Landed a ski tech gig at the local shop, which became the last and most essential means to support the habit. “Sweet, dude,” I thought. And I camped out. Waiting for the storm. It takes a certain kind of tact, a certain nose for observance that allows one, if he or she possesses the will, to walk into a new town as a stranger and quickly assimilate into the local way of life for the purpose of both perspective-shift and survival. Beer drinking does not only qualify as a great pastime, burden or conqueror of inhibitions, it also serves as a key to conversation and philosophy that is otherwise hidden under a buffer zone of human-isolating, self-conscious garble. Swig after swig. Gulp after gulp. Empty glass after satisfying empty glass- sometimes at the tool bench and sometimes at the bar, I proceeded to get plastered off the undeniably hardcore lager of ski-bum philosophy; revolving solely around what is consensually considered the sport’s greatest accomplishment: making the decision to ride mountains at every possible God-given chance. No questions asked. I cannot state it anymore accurately than that. I found this thought form to have roots in both Sartre-esque existentialism as well as Taoism. However, more applicably, I think it can be visualized as a path traveled alone in a wilderness of infinite harmonious flow and interconnection. This has defined my time here in the mountains. I met Rusty, the ski tech with thirty years of experience under his belt. And Dave, the freeskiing, shit talking Masshole turned New Hampshirite. And then there was Craig, the quiet, tripped-way-too-many-times-on-acid visionary and encyclopedia of backcountry skiing. Then there was Rodger, my alcoholic and partly brain-damaged yet still somehow cunning businessman/number crunching no-idea-how-this-guy-does-so-well boss; whose ownership of four ski shops in town qualified him as “Emperor”, tentatively by New Hampshire standards, surely by his own. Just to give you an idea of this guy, the first time I met him his hair was reaching up and out in every direction, he had huge glasses, his face was all scraped up, and he had two lazy eyes that kind of drifted and bobbled around in the direction his head moved (kind of like how the powerball numbers tend to bounce around in the air-chamber before being randomly dropped into the winning number slot). So anyways, he looked like he had drank two bottles of whiskey, climbed halfway up the mountain in the dark, locked into his skis and rode all but twenty feet downhill before colliding dramatically with a tree. And apparently that is just what had happened. As the season progressed more and more lonely ski jocks seemed to show up here. Snow fell. We drank whiskey, chased married women, banded together, shared war stories, and, most importantly, we skied. We held sessions in the park, snuck brews on the chairlift, passed bowls in the gondola and skied off the trails into mountain terrain so isolated and treacherous that without local knowledge and skill, a first-timer would surely find himself perched atop the endangered-species list. That is not an exaggeration. The camaraderie we developed, I would suspect, is not very different from any another sub-culture dedicated to (1) freedom and (2) the riding of H2O particles in any of their transient forms. Often we would find ourselves red-cheeked on pitchers of beer after a long day of finding grooves and harmonies with the mountain. I would look around at these other rag-tag ski-fools that had somehow, by the will of the universe, been thrown here into this place with me; and I would listen intently as they traded stories about the mountain as if she was some black haired sex-goddess with long eyelashes and red nipples, who had once given them a taste of her intoxicating juices, showed them something intimate and divine—and forever leashed them to her, trapping them in a hopeless, end-of-the-Earth chase for just one more taste of that sweet, sweet pussy… And I too began to feel the lure and pull… So what is one of the most natural reactions that one faces in the realization that free will not only exists but CAN also be limitlessly exercised? Doubt, undoubtedly. I questioned the validity of my reasoning that led up to the decision to come here. After all, I left a healthy Massachusetts economy with a generous job market. I left free food and a warm bed and a loving family. Perhaps, I thought, I was so absorbed in chasing that sweet pussy that I’d become more than just a little out of touch with the world at large. You see, in a ski village sandwiched by mountains it is hard to stay current with, say, the smooth harmony of world politics, or perhaps the charming and unpredictable conditions gracefully granted to us by the Gods of Pop-Culture Imperium. Then one night around the bonfire I thought to myself. Would staying in touch with these distracting comforts have preserved my sanity? Fuck no. It had been gone for a long time. (I think its somewhere on the side of a Tennessee highway right now, but that’s another story entirely). So along with my lifestyle I absorbed a different taste of culture, a different kind of madness, and indulged in true mountain existence. Surely, I did not come here to drink with crusty locals. But I did, and I do, and I love it. And I did not come here to witness the shocking decay of elderly mountain-folk. Yet I do. And it freaks me out to no end. In fact, the last time I think I saw so many trucker hats on the heads of frail and withered cigarette smokers was Sorority Row, UMass Amherst, 2004. I went on to figure- in the sense of a true Taoist- that inviting doubt on my journey would be more than burdensome on this path for one. I knew only one thing for certain in this place. Riding mountains got us closer to the source. Secondly, such ventures, in this particular business, required heavy snowstorms. So now, every morning before work I peer out my window with binoculars like an old general- waiting for the next storm on the horizon- waiting to ride the sacred pow. And still, from my humble hermitage I see the sunrise bleed bright orange over the rocky-tops high up on the Kancamagus Pass and once again I decide that it is, after all, a futile endeavor to call in sick to work today since the storm, the sweet pussy, the Godhead, continues to elude me. Then late one night, I heard the weather report that I had been waiting for- three feet of snow somewhere between New Hampshire, Vermont and Canada. Perhaps the last of the season. We would get that one more taste if we were to cast aside all else in order to open a window of opportunity for us big-mountain riders to snatch just a little more euphoria. And in the end, our search would lead us face to face with dangerous mountains, pink slips, eviction notices and even the dooming possibility of jail time.
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Friday, March 24, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Bob McGovern (This is a column I wrote for the Express Newspapers of Whitman and Hanson this week) About two months ago, my publisher gave me a desk. It was a fine piece of IKEA-esque craftsmanship and I knew that it was the one missing component of my then-barren room. The 200-pound rectangle had to somehow get from Point A (the office) to Point B (my room) and the only way to do this would be to fit it into the back of my Jeep and squeeze the door shut. My editor and I looked at the geometric problem and decided to use the age-old male chauvinistic solution - force the desk in and slam the door shut. Bingo, once again matter defeated mind. Or did it? When I got home that night, I went to the back of my car and tested the handle. Nothing. “All right, let’s have at it again,” I thought to myself. Nothing. Nothing? Nothing! That’s right, the desk was stuck in the back and I was suddenly relegated to a two-seater. I thought I would have time to just take the desk out, but my responsibility as sportswriter for this establishment made it semi-difficult to get it done. I would drive all over the state, covering basketball, hockey, and most recently cheerleading. The whole while, my large rectangular friend sat in the back, serenading me with its drawers as they slammed shut at every turn. This desk was a well-travelled one, it went down to Bourne on three separate occasions, twice to see the Whitman-Hanson hockey team compete in the Division II South Sectional Tournament. In fact, after the Panthers were eliminated in overtime by Franklin, I filed my game notes away in the top right drawer - I figured I might as well get some use out of it while it was in there. It has seen North Andover and Taunton as I followed the cheerleaders’ spectacular run from the South Sectional Championship, to their fifth place finish in States. On my way to North Andover I had to make a sharp turn to get off the highway, sure enough whatever remained in the drawers made its way to my floor. On my trip to cover the men’s basketball team, I kept the ultra-confusing directions to Dartmouth in the bottom drawer, because my boss let me use his TomTom Go navigation tool. As I went back home, “Ride Wit’ Me” by Nelly came on the radio and the wooden side served as mypersonal drum set (yes, I said Nelly, I’m getting old). As the winter season began to die down, I found myself with more time, and with this more opportunities to remove the desk. Of course, being the procrastinator I am, I decided to just wait and put it off for just the right time. I was on my way to Hanson, to interview Athletic Director Jim Daley, when all of a sudden I heard an enormous “Crack!” I pulled over, looked in the back of my car, and saw that the desk was somehow outgrowing my car and had cracked the interior lining. The next day, I dropped $55 to have it removed. The blind spot was gone and so was my back seat office. One of the most well-traveled desks in Massachusetts was back home where it started, with miles of high school sports embedded in its semi-glossy finish.
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Tuesday, March 21, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Shawn Romance It has been a long time since I was able to watch the greatest show on television. In two minutes, I have seen approximately 40 punches thrown and two obese men standing shirtless on stage, except for the ties they are both sporting. The object of their affection is a toothless, white trash slut whose vagina is looser than Dick Cheney’s trigger finger. “Ding Ding”. Another fight erupts to cheers of “Jerry”, and yet I wonder how they can maintain this prizefighter stamina. Jabs and left hooks are flying through the air past the heads of the “bouncers” who actually are laughing more than the audience. Watching this is like sitting through a southern family reunion (sorry Bob), somehow a brother and sister just started making out. No bell this time just an all-out brawl after the truth is revealed that there is yet another man involved. Somehow this behemoth is bigger than the others, apparently this man has time in between feedings to fuck this broad. Finally the woman makes it on stage and slaps one of the men for no apparent reason. Could this be scripted any better? I imagine an episode of 24 has more twists and turns than Springer, but I’m sure that this dribble won’t win an Emmy. There is only a half an hour left and still some neo-nazi will try to kill a transvestite before it’s over. But what I’m really waiting for is what Mr. Springer is going to say at the end of the show to justify this debacle. I can picture something about lost love and tulips. However, deep down I know that it will involve one last fat joke, or guests jumping into the crowd because an audience member called them a douche-bag. “Jerry, Jerry!” this somehow can erupt a room with the effect a semi-automatic gunfire. Automatic would be too quick and it would be too bloody, you have to let them know you’re in the room first and then unleash the missiles. I can’t wait to shower and rid myself of this awful feeling of southern hospitality. But wait, there is no way to turn away now, another man (shirted) is on stage whimpering about losing his home due to his wife’s Home Shopping Network addiction. And the zinger, of course, she’s sleeping around on him. He loves her, however, and that’s okay. Until he realizes that his best friend is the one doing her doggy style every afternoon. The bell rings, Jack Johnson and Rocky Marciano are going at it, when the pile of human trash is unearthed they are now shirtless. They tire much quicker than the previous guests and this “Title” bout is not living up to its hype. It amazes me that both are still wearing their ties as if their man breasts are not exposed. Then it happens: “blurred” titties what we were all waiting for. Life is good again, and I completely forgot everything up to that moment. Tomorrow I will turn on the tube and realize that I shouldn’t be watching this crap, but it will turn into an endless cycle and it will always end with Jerry wishing me well. But who the fuck am I kidding I can’t watch the next 15 minutes, I have already watched what’s about to engulf the Chicago studio. So Jerry I have two words for you “semi automatic.”
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Monday, March 20, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Steve Bagley (Facebook sucks and so do you. A heartfelt but terse rant by the commander of the Unified Human Resistance who traveled back in time from the year 2081 in order to warn you about your pitiful self-obsession) Ok, listen up all you blissfully unaware simpletons who think Facebook is the most awesome shit in the world. It is not. It sucks. Frankly, it wreaks of poor taste and gives people their own little virtual-ego-world where they can be as cool and deep as they want and list all the movies and books they identify with so they can subsequently draw unflawed pictures of themselves while so conveniently avoiding human contact so as to keep from ruining their own little illusions of perfection, self-security and righteousness. Don't you see, that is how the robots want you to feel- complacent and comfortable. When the robots come, and everyone knows they will, the people on Facebook will be the first to be enslaved and harnessed for their precious life juice that the machines will later use to power the heat-seeking tanks during the human uprising. Those of you who resist will be killed or relentlessly hunted by the cold, calculating, emotionless robots. So when you're snacking on rats and clinging to your AK-47 in the dark, dank ruins of what was once the campus center while preparing to make a futile last stand as the robots approach with their machine guns, glowing red eyes and grinning metal skulls you can thank the assholes on Facebook.
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by Ben Myers
Posted by Heather Kelleher So here I am, hung-over and guilt ridden because I didn’t go to work. I hate that this ridiculous software company has a vice grip on my figurative balls so it’s not enough for me to feel like shit but I have to have this terrible anxiety over the “absent” points I’m accruing. Once I get to seven points apparently they’ll fire me. Was it worth it? The answer is a most definitive YES. Had I been responsible I never would have had the chance to play the “let’s kick each other in the shins” game last night outside of the bar. Damn, my shins do fuckin hurt, and the bruises are just now becoming very noticeable and tender. Had I acted responsibly I also would not have had the opportunity to see a four hundred pound biker buy whiskey shots for a blond chic that prefers Jewish boys. I wonder if he thought he had a chance or was just going to hoist her onto his shoulder and carry her out. So I say, yes, it was worth it, and I remind myself that it doesn’t really matter. Hell, I’m working at a software company and I loathe computers. Fucking bastards. I’m a psych and English major; I’m not conditioned to enjoy my job, particularly the whole cubicle business. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy my little partitioned off area and the fact that it’s getting so bad there we basically need a hall pass to go use the bathroom. Skipping work, I suppose, is my own warped way of exercising some control over my destiny, however detrimental. Kind of how anorexics use food to fight for some sense of power or control, even if it means starving to death. Tomorrow I’ll go to work though. I’ll take the 7:49 bus from Oak Square to Kendall Square and I’ll hate every minute of the faint smell of urine, the lurching of the bus as it makes its stops, and even the faces that have become familiar out of this horrendous routine. And as I ride up in the elevator, before I use my magnetic security badge to gain entrance to the floor I work on, I’ll begin convincing myself that I want to be here. I’ll do such a good job deluding myself that by the time I sit down at my desk with my bagel and green tea, I’ll actually think I’m enjoying myself.
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by Ben Myers
Posted by Steve Bagley We dropped the rat onto the bathroom floor. It scurried frantically, sniffing along the walls, poking its nose for a way out. The rat was tireless and continued this for a long time. The snake, however, did nothing. It was still motionless like before. But the snake knew. Gray eyes watched vacantly in its arrow-shaped head. The neck was extended from the coiled body snug behind the toilet. The snake was the color of earth and had black symmetrical diamonds down the length of its body from head to tail; a Boa roughly eight feet in length. It had not eaten for six months. The rat paused momentarily, perhaps suddenly spooked, sniffing the ground a few feet away. The snake steadily retracted its head, the mass of its coiled body still motionless while the upper third loaded back like a thick spring with a broad-head arrow at its tip. Absolute silence. The rat sensed something and perked up to listen-- The snake unloaded-- snapping from across the pale bathroom floor-- There was a squeal-- bright pink liquid sprayed outward-- There was a heavy tumbling of the snake's body and a quick struggle as the rat wiggled in its jaws, but the snake soon gained control and whipped itself into two spirals around the white rodent's mass, slapping its heavy tail onto the bathroom floor. There was a screech again. The snake settled in. The rodent tapped and clawed for the ground but was twisted belly-up and off balance. Its fur was wet and matted with red. The snake held its jaws around the neck and shoulders. There was more kicking and squealing. The snake tightened to hush it. It wrenched on the spiral-grip and rolled, whipping its body around. The snake landed in place and the rat was quiet. The snake unhinged its jaw and yawned, first swallowing the rat's head and front legs. Then went the torso, hind legs, and pink tail until there was nothing but a lump in its throat. The snake coiled up and slept for a long, long time. And during that long sleep I imagined that the snake dreamt it was a human. And in its dream found itself perplexed as to whether or not the universe he resided in was friendly or hostile.
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Saturday, March 18, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Ben Myers I was 18 with a chronic case of senioritus when the summons to court arrived that prompted my enraged parents to insist I leave the house indefinitely. The following week was spent attending only Intro to Shakespeare (if only to rendezvous with those willing to skip the rest of the day), drinking 64 ounce Growlers of Arrogant Bastard Heavy Ale beside the pond, and captaining lacrosse practice. Aside from my needy-wealthy Jewish girlfriend, having to find shelter at night, and disguising the lingering aroma of Arrogant Bastard Heavy Ale as Coach did his rounds during stretch, life was swell. Occasionally I’d find myself reluctant to impinge upon the peaceful evening household routines of my friends, and I’d sleep in the sand pit. The sand pit was a hollow square mile of precious watershed land owned by the Conservation Commission, and a refuge for the usual suspects to get sea-whiskered and light fireworks. During one of the lonely school nights in the sand pit, lying fireside digesting a bellyful of Lays potato chips and whole milk, I turned my eyes from the clear sky and into the flames. Painfully focused on the embers, I began to strategize. The romantic plan I conceived that very night, the roadmap of my future, was as salty and spontaneous as my hankering for chips and milk. I would attend the University of Massachusetts, become a civil engineer, land the sickest job ever, and completely redeem myself in the eyes of my folks – and possibly the girlfriend too, as improbable as it may have been. So very, positively improbable. I’ve done the dimensional analyses, generated the mathematical model, derived the linear equation, solved it (and found several solutions – real, unreal, and radical), and proven that a seagull has a better chance of getting shot by nailgun fire… Five years passed, and I consummated my ambitious endeavors, with no shortage of imprudent adventure along the way, landing what I believed to be, “the sickest job ever.” I was to oversee the construction of a sixty million [that’s sixty followed by six zeros (60,000,000)] dollar project in the greatest city worldwide, Boston. Shall I illustrate my vast responsibilities and even vaster power? No. Instead, I’ll be modest and put it plainly: my Mom and Dad call me every day and sometimes I don’t answer because I’m too busy. I transgress. While consumed in overseeing my construction site this past month, I came to notice a seagull that lacked the ability to fly. The wounded gull would feed on discarded grilled cheese crusts, partially gnawed chicken bones, and assorted refuse from the Roach Coach. Anyone who has worked in construction and the dregs of corporate America should be familiar with the Roach Coach. Basically, It’s a heated truck that boasts an assortment of fine cuisine at a nominal cost (Lays chips and whole milk included.) Our Roach Coach is operated by Ken. Ken is a short fat man in a red Nascar Jacket. Ken knows that I’m the man, and he hooks me up for free. Weeks expire with the days of excavators moving dirt, carpenters firing nailguns, side-wallers hanging vinyl, roofers installing shingles, plumbers running pipe, electricians pulling wire, tin-knockers knocking tin, etc. The metaphorical "melting pot" does not begin to describe the walks of life meshed together on a construction site. Individuals of all backgrounds choose this business -- the truest EOP, with no discrimination based on: race, age, religion, education, socio-economic status, confirmed illegal alien status, language, training, literacy, fashion sense, criminal standing, genetic mutation, drug addiction and/or musical taste. You can be just about any able-bodied creature, those missing limbs included. All are welcome to labor: Caucasian, African American, Puerto Rican, Asian, Native American, Mexican, Brazilian, Honduran, Ecuadorian, etc – save one, the flamboyantly gay male. Upon taking up a career in the construction trades aside from interior decorating, these individuals would most certainly encounter a world wildly divergent from that described in Dr. King's dream. Apparently wrong as this sounds, “It is what it is.” Or so they say in the greatest city worldwide. I stagger. Up until yesterday, in the hubbub of power and responsibility, I had lost track of the scavenging seagull. My moment of cognizance was the anticlimactic arrival of the Animal Police. According to the rather attractive dread-locked policewoman, the seagull was to receive immediate emergency surgery at the animal hospital. Furthermore, she informed me of having been tipped-off by an anonymous caller that the bird had been shot with a nailgun; and that if during the resuscitation of the gull a nail were found, law enforcement would be conducting a complete investigation. Tomfoolery! Thought I, until considering the implications. The repercussions of the alleged seagull assault have yet to be determined, but I can feel the heat. I assure you, as you giggle in your seat, this is no laughing matter. The following is a possible list of bona fide consequences: 1. The shooter will undeniably lose his job. 2. The shooter may face criminal charges. 3. Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) may conduct a site visit, resulting in fines up to $100,000 4. Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) may conduct a site visit, resulting in the deportation of the majority of my workers. 5. The seagull may die, resulting in dread-locked policewoman vowing revenge and initiating a sustained vendetta. 6. My company will be forced to donate a large sum of money to help finance the Animal Police. 7. My boss may kick my ass for writing this and I undoubtedly will question the business I have chosen. … and this, all for a seagull! I’ll keep you posted.
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Friday, March 17, 2006 by Ben Myers
“Smells like shit in here,” I thought out loud. The door was open, as always, and directly past the 400 multi-brand cans of beer there was a mound of what appeared to be fried chicken. “Chicken?” I thought, silently this time - I was doing my best to not be rude in case it was fish. I grabbed one of the fried morsels, and popped it in my mouth... “Yup, it’s fuckin’ chicken.” One foot in front of the other, almost tripped over a dog toy. Nice save though, quick stutter step and spin move through the doorway. “Still got it, baby” The thought of a shower was frightening, what a time investment. I could be doing anything; reading, television, laundry, lifting, thinking, sleeping, running, bow-fighting, all sorts of magnificent activities that I could stinkily participate in. Outside, I could hear the roommates laughing at something. “That’s fuckin’ rediculo...” “Who cares, I’m working on this shower thing right now,” I think, slightly muttering “right now” for some reason. I plop down on my futon and stare at the towel for a few seconds, ‘Fuck it.” I stand up, grab it , and go. Looked in the mirror for awhile and got that age-old college boy feeling of, “What the fuck are you looking at?” Three quarters to the right, that’s the spot. I turned the shower handle counterclockwise, perfect, as always. Did a quick hand check because you never really know with these things, and the feeling of scorching hot water on the mid-back is right up there with chewing aluminum foil - to me. First step in (right foot of course), “Awe, get the shit outta here,” real loud. Some stickiness on the shower floor and there is no doubting its origins. I picked up the contaminated foot, using the same skillful grace which eluded the dog’s toy, and rubbed it furiously with a bar of Irish Spring - that shit ain’t in the commercial. The rest of the shower was a lost cause, my right foot felt heavy and filthy, even though it smelled like an Irish farmer, clad in a turquoise turtle neck, with a song on his lips and a knife in his hand - for cutting the soap, obviously. Clockwise turn, real quick, didn’t want anything to do with that cold water which seems to race up the pipes much faster than the hot. I dried off and put on my next 24-hour attire. I walked past the living room, turned to the roommates who were now enjoying the chicken, and pointed to no one in particular. “Let the fucking water run after you finish playing the damned skin flute!” “Skin flute?” I thought. “I wonder if that’s used anymore.” They both looked up and laughed. The dog was on the couch between them, excited to see the three of us interacting. I walked in my room and hung up the towel in its usual place on the door. My foot felt awful, I didn’t even want to step on it anymore. “Dirty bastards,” I thought. The “sssss” in “bastards” whizzed through the gap in my front teeth.
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by Ben Myers
“The Idea” is simply that and not much else. It’s a drunk conversation and plenty of procrastination. It’s me sitting in front of my computer, full on nachos, french fries, and Guinness finally taking the time to give a damn. Essentially, this is a blog that’s for anyone that cares enough to make it one. It’s a spot where you can write whatever the you want, give it to me, and I’ll slap it on here - regardless of the style you’re attempting. Or, maybe no one will write, and that’s ok too. As Charles Bukowski said, “sometimes you just have to rest the Godhead.” But, if you want, here’s my e-mail: BobMcGovern@gmail.com. I’m not going to edit, or change anything you write... God knows I do that enough at work. Be your own editor, take some time out of your life to write “it” down, and never try to touch your elbows together behind your back - it’s a trick. Cheers, Bob
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Please email prospective posts to ben.t.myers@gmail.com.
Or, if you are so inclined, bobmcgovern@gmail.com
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