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From the Beav
If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, even if we don’t speak often, please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL MEMORY OF YOU AND ME.
It can be anything you want–good or bad–BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.
When you’re finished, post this paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON’T ACTUALLY remember about you.
Tom, remember that time when all of us from the old neighborhood went to Doc Watson’s when you came back to town? The band was awful, and we’d all had too much Guinness, and we were so mad that the band stank that Joey got into that fight with the intern from Jefferson and we all had to leave and get him sobered up with coffee at Wawa? And we decided that we all needed something to eat and we headed down to Jim’s on South Street and you tried to break their cheesesteak eating record, and the whole place was going nuts but when you got to the 25th cheesesteak, you hurled! You were so close! That was an awesome night!
Comment by Amy — December 8, 2005 @
I’ve known Tom since the 5th grade when we were altar boys together. When there was a funeral at the parish, Fr. Waterman would call the school principal to get us out of school so that we could serve the Mass.
One summer afternoon, Father called to have us come up to the parish to mow the grass. After working all afternoon, we were given a flat (24 cans) of soda as payment. Just imagine two boys trying to push their bikes through downtown while carrying a case of soda. I think we made it home with 6 cans intact. The rest exploded when they hit the hot pavement for the n-th time.
After getting home, we started arguing about who had done the most work, and who should get the remaining soda. He busted my lip and bloodied my nose after I sucker-punched him in the back of the head for grabbing 4 cans and walking away. His family moved away 2 weeks later, and we are just getting back in touch.
Comment by Darth Sarcasticus — December 8, 2005 @
Do you remember when we worked the phone bank for Arlen Specter together in 2004?
It was just before the primary, and I think you made probably fewer that 10 calls. I made over 50. Your calls were really long, because when you’d get someone engaged, you’d go on and on about how what a saint Specter was, and how he’d paid for your hernia surgery, and he let you stay at his place in Philly when he was in DC, and he’d use his influence to get in the door at the most popular Philly night clubs, and how as a consequence you had named all three of your boys “Arlen”?
Comment by Curmudgeon — December 8, 2005 @
Remember back in ’97 when the Wings and the Flyers were vying for the Stanley Cup? We had a friendly rivalry going, the type that is unique to hockey fans due to the sacred nature of the game. Anyway, we thought we would go catch the game down at Dunleavy’s. We wanted to make sure we got that spot at the corner of the bar where we would have an unobstructed close-up view of the big screen TV.
We were worried that we might not be early enough, but we started to panic when we got there and it was closed. You really gave me hell about that. I had been talking the place up all week, and the thought of a world class Irish pub being closed at 5:00AM really upset you. Fortunately you had a warm six-pack of Guinness in the trunk and that tied us over until old man Dunleavy arrived at 6:15AM.
We managed to get the choice seats and had a great time. Errr…Perhaps a little too good of a time. With four hours to go before game time we were a both a little off our game. I passed out right there at the bar. Not wanting to get kicked out on account of my napping and desiring a nap yourself, you used your wits and scrolled out on two bar napkins, “Proud, but weary veteran of the IRA. No thanks needed – I consider it my duty - just wake me up for the big game.�
You taped one on my back, then one on yours before you crashed. It only seemed like a few minutes later that we were awoken by our enthusiastic new friends. The pre-game was on and mysteriously our pockets were lined with cash! We were refreshed and ready for action.
Even though it was game four of what would turn out to be a Red Wings SWEEP! The game was still very important for us, nay, for real men everywhere, to see. So we didn’t take too kindly to the two gentlemen(?) who came in and were whining about hockey being a violent sport. They wanted the bartender to tune the satellite dish to some bizarre Latin American network so they could watch soccer. Apparently, Lima was playing Buenos Aires and it’s “such a fierce rivalry�.
As everyone would expect, you started citing bible verses to prove that hockey is of God and that the father of soccer is the Father of Lies. I thought they were going to die of a hissy fit. They accused you of being a homophobe because you don’t like soccer. To which you stood up and replied, “I can assure that’s not true, but tell me who said that I was afraid of homos so I can go break his neck.� To that, the soccer fans just did an about face and high-tailed it out the door.
What an eventful day, June 7, 1997.
Remember back in ’97 when the Wings and the Flyers were vying for the Stanley Cup? We had a friendly rivalry going, the type that is unique to hockey fans due to the sacred nature of the game. Anyway, we thought we would go catch the game down at Dunleavy’s. We wanted to make sure we got that spot at the corner of the bar where we would have an unobstructed close-up view of the big screen TV.
We were worried that we might not be early enough, but we started to panic when we got there and it was closed. You really gave me hell about that. I had been talking the place up all week, and the thought of a world class Irish pub being closed at 5:00AM really upset you. Fortunately you had a warm six-pack of Guinness in the trunk and that tied us over until old man Dunleavy arrived at 6:15AM.
We managed to get the choice seats and had a great time. Errr…Perhaps a little too good of a time. With four hours to go before game time we were a both a little off our game. I passed out right there at the bar. Not wanting to get kicked out on account of my napping and desiring a nap yourself, you used your wits and scrolled out on two bar napkins, “Proud, but weary veteran of the IRA. No thanks needed – I consider it my duty - just wake me up for the big game.�
You taped one on my back, then one on yours before you crashed. It only seemed like a few minutes later that we were awoken by our enthusiastic new friends. The pre-game was on and mysteriously our pockets were lined with cash! We were refreshed and ready for action.
Even though it was game four of what would turn out to be a Red Wings SWEEP! The game was still very important for us, nay, for real men everywhere, to see. So we didn’t take too kindly to the two gentlemen(?) who came in and were whining about hockey being a violent sport. They wanted the bartender to tune the satellite dish to some bizarre Latin American network so they could watch soccer. Apparently, Lima was playing Buenos Aires and it’s “such a fierce rivalry�.
As everyone would expect, you started citing bible verses to prove that hockey is of God and that the father of soccer is the Father of Lies. I thought they were going to die of a hissy fit. They accused you of being a homophobe because you don’t like soccer. To which you stood up and replied, “I can assure that’s not true, but tell me who said that I was afraid of homos so I can go break his neck.� To that, the soccer fans just did an about face and high-tailed it out the door.
What an eventful day, June 7, 1997.
Comment by Rick Lugari — December 8, 2005 @
I remember when we went to the mariachi Mass at San Francisco de Asis in Ranchos de Taos and had an excellent dinner afterwards of green chile enchiladas and tamales. That day it was so cold and the snow was so big it was glopping down from the clouds breaking over the Sangre de Cristos. Oh man, I fell off the snowmobile so many times, and you would never wait for me! Thanks! That night in Red River with the wood fired stove and absinthe soothed the bumps and bruises! You said you’d never drink any thing green again! Ha ha, Merry Christmas, here’s your bottle of Chartreuse!
Comment by Tracy Fennell — December 8, 2005 @
I suspect this will explain a lot to your readers.
Do you remember our last game in the fall of 19xx in the San Dimas Youth Soccer club? You and I were fullbacks. It was our last game of the regular season with the Eastside Eagles. We were both up for a chance to go to all region for our division. I’ll never forget it… although I forgave you along time ago.
We had one minute left to go in the fourth quarter, and the score was tied. It was easy enough. If we did our jobs, kept the ball out of the penalty area, and forced the ball upfield, we’d at very least have a kick off. But no. You had to go all maverick and try to head that ball away from the striker. He was a striker for a reason. It wasn’t all that surprising to hear that sickening crack as his instep met your temple.
So what did you do? Did you crumple and whimper like any decent soccer player would do? No! You got up, tackled the ball away from the bastard, and made a shot on our own goal!
I lost my chance at a scholarship that night. I’m just grateful that Ruby Tuesdays has been such a great company to work for. I’ll be an assistant night manager in two more months!
No wonder you hate soccer.
Comment by Theocoid — December 8, 2005 @
Tom, The downriver canoe trip we went on together as Scouts back in ‘79 is as fresh in my mind today as it was the day we piled into wayback of the Aries K-car wagon to head home. Maybe I could have been more accepting of you, I could have been a more generous soul, but at that age, Tom, how much should we ask? You were, after all, more interested in that red 12-sided die that you insisted on showing us at every turn than you were in the cold cans of beer that floated and bobbed alongside our Grumman sixteen footers. Those college boys would capsize their canoes in the rapids and each and every one of them would let uncounted beer cans free into the chilly water of the Delaware. The river water was exactly the temperature you like your Amstel lights chilled to today Tom, know this.We fished Black Labels, Hamm’s, Schlitz, Buds, Pabst Blue Ribbons, Miller Genuine Drafts, (and some cans so worn from the river bottom that we couldn’t read the labels) by the dozen out of that water. Tom, you didn’t need to tell the Scoutmaster about our beer. You said you were concerned for us, and that might have been true, but no one ever really choked on the pulltab from a beer can. The college boys were camped on the other side of the river, What did you think they were going to do, Tom, swim? Swim across the rushing current of the Delaware River (in beer-cold water), leaving their roaring campfires, their coolers full of beer, their girls, I presume there were girls for what is spring break without girls? Swim across to retrieve a dozen cans of beer and beat up a half a dozen uniformed Scouts within earshot of their fathers? Do you still find that to be plausible? Yes, I should have been nicer. Of this there is no doubt in my mind. Understand this, though: I will not wear briefs to this day, and when I visit my mother’s home I must steadfastly avoid her seeing me and the laundry machines at the same time for the mortification that remains still from her finding the terribly stained tighty-whities from that trip would overcome us both! Tom, when you lit that feeble-ass smoky campfire, we know that you used the whole roll of TP to do that. There is no use in denying it any longer. We all know, every one of us, Brian, Rich, Tim (and his little bro whatzizname), Morelli, Jim S., (and the red-headed Jim S.) Fox, every single one of us who needed a few squares of TP to get clean for the remainder of that trip had and to make do with leaves and went back to school with some kind of itch or rash thanks to you know it went into the feeblest fire I have ever seen. That includes some of my sister in law’s wet-wood-no-kindling efforts. We all had some kind of fascination with fire, didn’t we?, that and knives, if it hadn’t been for the campfires and the rifle club, I wouldn’t have made it past second-class. We all had a little touch of pyromania, sure, but you coulda cut up a candle, dripped some lit chewing gum onto a rock, you could have done that thing with some nylon rope. Nylon rope burns like napalm with sound effects like Star Wars, and we must’ve had 150 feet of it with us, Tom. Don’t squeeze the Charmin indeed, that old grocery guy should to you not to burn the Charmin. You could have given Morelli one of your matches, just one, that kid always had the knack for a capmfire. He’d have lit your precious fire, in 3 minutes wood would have been crackling and your heap of smoldering TP would have been incinerated, and maybe you’d have stopped putting the only chance I had at modest hygiene in the fire. I hear he’s out now, and managing the family store back home. That would have been my first beer Tom. There coulda been a real fire, and I could have had my first beer on a moonlit night in the woods with my friends and with co-eds frolicking and giggling at a safe but tantalizing distance.
Tom, I still have your BSA issued pocketknife, the one with the fake bone handle. I didn’t really throw it in the river, I palmed it and threw a short stick. I’ll tuck it in with your Christmas card if you’d reply with a mailing address. Sorry.
Comment by Captoe — December 9, 2005 @
[…] As seen on Happy Catholic and De Civitate Dei now here by way of The Donegal Express… If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, even if we don’t speak often, please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL MEMORY OF YOU AND ME. […]
Pingback by inedibleink.com » Remember Me? — December 9, 2005 @
Do you remember when we two snotty nosed kids used to squat in the dust by the road to Skibbereen? Gnawing on potatoes, drinking Guinness and dreaming of electricity. Ah, those were the days. Holding Clancy Brothers LPs to our ears, trying to hear the music. Burying guns, digging them up, and burying them again. Brewing poitin to bring home to the hovel we shared with twelve other families and three pigs.
Those were the best potatoes ever. And look at us now. But are we better off? Really?
Comment by Anthony — December 10, 2005 @
I remember a night you spent in a drunken reverie under my dorm room window. I was sooo mortified. I mean, really it was bad enough that you were singing off key, but Your impression of Rod Stewart left a lot to be desired.
Thank goodness there were other girls in the dorm named Maggie, I swore you were serenading one of them.
Comment by Maggie — December 11, 2005 @