Scribblings & Pints

How did I get here?
I can recall a time when the day's most difficult task was trying to color within the lines, and one day Mrs. Cavanaugh, my portly kindergarten teacher who coincidentally wanted to "leave me back a year" due to my coloring follies, sat the entire lot of us in a circle and told us we could be anything we wanted. She went around the circle and my classmates had legitimate answers, like a princess, a fireman, a police officer, a lawyer, or a doctor. One ambitious little teacher's pet responded, "I want to be an astronaut." All I could think of at the time was being paid to spit. A spitter. She was appalled, but the others laughed their grotesque little faces off. I soon learned how to count change and read a clock.

As my education progressed, so did my aspirations. By first grade I told my parents I was going to do the right thing for society and be a police officer. My parents lovingly steered me toward something else that didn't involve risking my life in the name of a pension. I could see them mouthing the letters l-a-w-y-e-r and d-o-c-t-o-r, as I proclaimed I would settle for being a fireman. They were less than thrilled, and if I recall that night I was forced to drink an extra glass of milk, a.k.a. arsenic at that age.

By third grade I had it figured out. I was going to be a professional basketball player. "Dad, I want to be like Magic Johnson," I said. "You mean Larry Bird," he corrected. He was silently hoping I had said Patrick Ewing. In his estimate I would have been ambitious to want to emulate a man that was rumored to have to tape his trouser snake to his leg with duct tape. I gave that dream up when it became apparent that there weren't any 5'9" Lebanese men in the NBA, which describes what my dad is.

In fifth grade I knew I was destined to be a drummer (see Flams & Paradiddles post). The phase slowly burned out when I realized I wasn't really that talented, but suffered through years of school band.

Then thirteen punched me in the face with braces and acne. Welcome to adolescence you cocky little bastard. I was at a crossroads in my life in terms of career paths. My parents had completely given up hope. They couldn't reach me, so they just begged me to do well in school. I ignored them and everything and focused on a movie that melted my face and planted a seed, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I couldn't really comprehend what the hell was going on in the movie, but the imagery was unparalleled. Directly after the viewing, I connected to AOL with the dial-up modem and looked up the movie to find that it was based on the Hunter S. Thompson book. I had to read it. I would later re-read the book three more times at various stages of my high school and college life.

This was my calling. I was destined to be a correspondent. The job would just be an excuse for me to go on the most mind-bending, drug-induced benders that God had ever seen. It was a lay-up and a physical challenge to endure such a strict drug regiment. I would convince some idiot to pay me to write something completely unimportant and slightly appealing. My lens would be influenced by LSD, various pills, weed, and liquor in an attempt to explore and describe some of the best and worst trips that only the most devoted addicts had ever experienced.

All of my friends were applying to colleges and I had no idea what I wanted to do or where I wanted to go, which forced my parents to pray daily to St. Jude that their second son would be found. I went to school in Boston and decided (like all true morons) to major in finance and accounting. My parents were so happy. I was in school, out of their hair, and doing well. I did well enough so they wouldn't question what I was doing in my leisure time, which was smoking trees regularly with my friends. Graduation reared its ugly head in May and reality set in. I would be working on Wall St. and not following in any rogue author's footsteps.

All of this brings us to the present. My drug of choice is strictly alcohol, mainly beer and red wine. The closest to a Thompson-esque demonstration is when I show up to work wreaking like a gin mill. It is highly frowned upon when my boss sees me sweating and chugging alternating gulps of lemon-lime Gatorade and coffee loaded with milk and sugar. Sometimes I get to live out my dreams and go out to lunch with some guys from work, easing my nerves with a Brooklyn Lager, and return to churn out some more irrelevant financial reports that nobody reads. Enter this blog you unlucky, devoted few. I can't thank you enough for indulging in this useless banter.

Note: I realize that I conveniently overlooked the following professions: skimboarder, surfer, and skateboarder. Ohh, and actor.