Blues Blog #3: The Trip Begins

Well, I made it home. I successfully journeyed down to the southern states and came home unscathed. Well, almost unscathed. There were a couple run ins with the law, but I won't get ahead of myself. I'll start at the start, but for those of you who haven't read what my trip was all about, catch yourself up by reading the two previous blues blogs.

The day of departure felt odd from the start. For the whole night before and the whole morning of, I felt like a napping corpse, waiting in neutral for the drive to begin. Even playing music with the band seemed like a waste of energy. I ran a lot of errands to pick up supplies, and by 1 o'clock I was finally ready to hit the road. I smoked a little weed, put on The Band and started my 8 hour long trek to Southern Virginia.

The first leg of the trip seemed strangely normal. For the first 5 or 6 hours, I felt like I was just taking a regular trip back to school in Lancaster. The weather was beautiful, sunny skies and large, fluffy clouds, there was no threat of inclement conditions. My first stop was at a large Hess Station in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania for a mid-drive dump. I could tell I wasn't in Fairfield County anymore. There were cowboy hats for sale and racist remarks written in the bathroom stalls. It was at this point I started to realize that I was now the odd man out. I was the weird one. Although I was horny for the unknown, it was scary being all alone, and this slight culture shock was just the first of many coming.

I passed the Mason-Dixon Line at 5 pm, cruising towards Christansburg, VA. During a stop at a gas station in West Virginia, I started to get concerned about the car. Not for any automotive reason, but simply because of its looks. My mom let me take her Lexus, because any long trip is made easier with GPS, but it was starting to make me stick out like a sore thumb. Black luxury SUV, vanity plates and liberal college bumper stickers. I was getting hostile looks from the locals, and starting to feel the pressures of being out of place. But one nice nod from a sweet old man made me feel as if there was no substance to my fear. After all, when was the last time you heard about southerners angrily beating another american kid simply for being from the north? So I got back in the car, convinced everything would be all right, and kept rolling towards my destination, blasting The Thrills and singing at the top of my lungs.

After stopping off for some Micky D's for dinner, I started the final push to my hotel. I was driving through the Virginia farmlands, where rolling hills and fields stretch out for miles. The sunset was absolutely gorgeous, and I found myself dangerously watching the pale pink sky and brilliantly bold orange-red sun. I wanted to stop off the side of the road and watch it from a hilltop, but it seemed a bad idea to trespass on someone's farm and leave the lexus unattended. I made it a point to watch another one at some point.

Finally, after 8 hours of driving, I made it to Christiansburg, Virginia. The hotel was quite nice (the kind of place my mom would book me in), and that made it hard to decide what I wanted to do. I could either chill and watch the South Park that was on (Jimmy's Erection Episode, "But the talent show is tomorrow!"), or go venture into town and find Virginia Tech. I decided to do something, so I bought a six pack of Coronas and drove the VT athletic complex. It's such a massive campus, and the only thing I could really find was the football field and student gym. I would have walked around, but seeing students in their natural habitat made me feel very isolated and alone, so I just drove around a bit and marveled at the massive football stadium. It looked like a giant temple to the gods of sport, and I reverently envisioned the activity that it housed on game day.

This last section, I'll take directly from my trip journal, written at 12:30 am on Wednesday August 26th. "Got pretty fucked up. 4 Coronas and 2 one hitters, drank in the room and watched 'In The Army Now'. I can't do as many push ups as Pauly Shore, and that's a saddening thought. Sat in the car and smoked, I'm being very safe about things, but I didn't expect to have this much bud on me, still not that much though. Like in life, the weed will eventually be gone, and I'll have to manage myself without the habit I've truly abused for the last four years. This trip is starting to take its toll on me introspectively. Every song I listen to has some relation to my situation, some are reassuring, others are not. When I punched in Clarksdale in the GPS, I realized that tomorrow at 8 am, I will be driving 10 hours to Mississippi. I know I've got to grow up, but that requires action. I don't think this is going to be as easy as quitting coke (the soda!) after pledging, but these are all thoughts I've been thinking for nearly 3 months now. I guess it comes down to September 1st. Either I will shape up as I should, or I'll continue 'wasting my potential'. If I succeed, this trip will be the end of my childhood. That thought is saddening, but then again, all life is is Time & Growth & Life & Death & Love & Lust & History."

So that's the first leg of my journey. Please check back to read the other, more exciting parts of my trip. Until then, I'll leave you with a haiku I wrote in the hotel lobby the next morning before leaving to go to Mississippi. It's called, "I Just Heard Senator Kennedy Died Last Night".

Bagel and Cream Cheese

Edward Kennedy is dead

So it goes, they say.

Blues Blog #2: The Starting Point

It's been a while since my last post, and a lot has happened in the past 24 days. Let's play some catch up and recap my month of August so far. When I last left you, I was having a difficult time really pushing myself. I was sitting around the house all day, playing with the dogs and playing music with Chris (lead singer/guitarist in my band, more about that whole thing after the blues blog concludes). I felt like I wasn't exerting much effort finding a job, and after the whole broken leg thing, I was in a bad place mentally. I felt like a flattened puddle of wasted potential, unable to gain momentum, stuck and stalled in the sticky mud pile that is Fairfield County. In order to get myself out of this hole, I decided to take a trip to experience the birthplace of blues music. I would escape this place, recharge my batteries and come back ready and roaring to start my adult life. Then, something came up. A job in fact. The story goes like this...

One morning, I awoke to find my checking account in the negative numbers. Long story short, it was a childish mistake of mine, mismanaging money and not realizing exactly how the system worked. It wasn't the first time this had happened, but on this particular day I was quite torn up. I was costing my parents mad cash with thoughtless errors, and I was quite down on myself. After taking Courtney to work, I was unable to go back to sleep, and I found myself sitting in the barn, in front of a big screen TV, next to a packed bowl. Now normally, my comfort-seeking self would have found this the ideal haven to chill out after a stressful ordeal, but on this particular day, I was determined to change. I got up, got dressed, and got down with the working world. I had seen an ad on craigslist for a hotel front desk job, and so I went to inquire in person. Long story short, After a couple interviews, I got the job.

Now, I had a four day a week job that took me from 7 am to 3 pm, but the job was an odd match from the start. The place is pretty run down as far as hotels are concerned. No pool, moldy rooms, bad look, not so bright a future at this place, but still, I was employed, making money instead of wasting it. After the first day, however, my feet were killing me. I hadn't stood up consecutively for that long since before the break, and I felt the consequences on Tuesday morning. I woke up at 5:30 in a near paralyzed rage, so I talked to my boss who told me to go to the doctor and see what he said. Long story short (again), my therapist wrote me a note that allowed me to sit down once every couple hours, and everything was going to be cool. I went back for my scheduled shift on Thursday and thought I had done an ok job in my starting week.

Today is Monday, and I woke up this morning ready to start week two. I got dressed, got Courtney to work and headed to the hotel for a 9 am start. When I got there, however, I was immediately told to come into the general manager's office. I sat down, only half expecting what was coming (I bet you can guess). Yep. I got fired, let go, dropped. Use whatever euphemism you like. This morning I had a job, now I don't. They said it was a "long term decision". The hotel was taking on more than it could budget, and they could only afford to keep on one new front desk agent out of the three they planned to hire. I think we all knew I wasn't likely to stay there long. My ambitions extend further than general manager of some piece of shit Sheraton, and I'm sure they could tell. Still, the experience was quite disturbing. I had never been fired before, and to have it happen so quickly after starting was, quite frankly, embarrassing. All those people I had mentioned it to, my parents and my siblings, thinking I was starting my employment, instead, I was ending it. But still... life goes on.

Now the story comes full circle. I had scheduled work so that I would have the majority of this week off to take my trip. I was originally going to take my little brother back to school in Ohio and notified the hotel of this prior engagement even before getting hired. Collin decided to fly back, however, and so this left me with the perfect excuse to get a couple days off and do my down south trip. I asked the hotel if I could have half the week off, and they said that would be no problem (yeah, I guess not). My plan was, and I guess still is, to leave tomorrow, Tuesday August 25th, and drive down to Roanoke, Virginia. From there, I will drive to Clarksdale, Mississippi and start seeing the trail of delta blues history, finally finding my way up to Memphis for the weekend, then back home to New England. It seems more necessary now than ever before. I will escape this bubble, meditate on my future and basque in the southern sun.

I will be writing constantly while I'm on my way, but it won't show up here until I'm back home. After I conclude the Blues Blog, I will start writing the Band Blog, a series of stories inspired by my life in an aspiring rock band. It certainly is an interesting time to follow your dreams, and the journey to realize those dreams should (and already has been) word-worthy. At the moment, I'm still stunned from this morning, hungry as fuck, and stuck on what else to write. So as I prepare to depart this part of the country, let me leave you with another haiku in the hope that it helps you when your time comes to get dropped like a bad habit. It's called, "Oh Well, Hotels Were Never My Dream to Begin With".

The hotel hell hole

I got fired from my job

And don't care at all.

Blues Blog #1: The Origin of Rock

I apologize. Much like the Wachowski brothers, I've let you all down. My trilogy was ruined by some half-assed, phoned in third segment. I admit, my heart wasn't in it. It felt like a chore, and it showed. But I hope we can move on and find some solace in new projects. The Broken Leg is now a thing of the past. Now it is the future that concerns me.

When we left off, I was recovering from knee surgery and looking for a job. Essentially my days consisted of physical therapy, internet surfing and playing drums. One time at PT, the trainers were talking about this guy named Paul, a professional wrestler with the WWE who they knew from the clinic. I didn't know who they were talking about, or that he was coming in that day, but all the sudden I turn around and HHH is standing in the gym. Now for those of you who don't know, Triple H is kind of a bad boy wrestler, but he's been around for a while, even back when I watched pro-wrestling. He's still so jacked, so huge. With his straight, long blonde hair and menacing stature, his presence surely had an effect on me. I definitely tried harder in my exercises. Failure is not an option when HHH is watching you, and I refused to let the stairmaster beat me! As I worked out, Triple H sat on the massage table and got a rub down. He's very smart, very put together and knowledgeable on a lot of subjects. It was funny to see the real man when you only knew the character. Now on your normal star-struck gauge, HHH wouldn't score high, but for me, that day, it was very exciting. Any dude can remember those 12 year old days when dropping the people's elbow on your friend or younger sibling was oh so much fun. Even though it wasn't the Beatles or Brad Pitt, it was still a funny little episode that made my daily life seem much more interesting.

At nights I would hang out with Courtney and watch TV, deflecting parental comments and questions in the hopes creating an image of a productive, hard working me that spent his days really trying his best to make it. Courtney was working, hard. Props to her, of course. She's super freaking smart and is leaps and bounds ahead of most kids our age, and she deserves everything she's got in store for her. I was more than happy to assist in making her life easier during this transitional period. I dropped her off in the mornings and picked her up when she was done. But somewhere in between the picking up and the dropping off, the staying in and sleeping, I realized I was in a rut. I was barely trying in my job search, feeling like shitty insurance companies were the only places that would possibly hire me (I've turned down 3 shitty insurance jobs to this date, because I just don't want that to be my life). I felt I couldn't really commit to making my life without doing something a little off the map. I had to go somewhere, do something, anything that would allow me to move on past this summer and really start to work. Then it hit me.

One night, after Courtney had gone to bed, I was watching a documentary about the blues, narrated by the super smooth Morgan Freeman. I thought about the class I had taken Sophomore year, History of the Blues, I thought about the Mississippi Delta, the Dockery Plantation and the Road to Memphis, and I knew exactly what I would do. I would trace the early evolution of the blues, experience where it began, breathe the same air and see the same hills. It was perfect. Not too long and crazy, like that dude from Into the Wild, and not to cliche like a cross-country RV trip (don't get me wrong, I would love to do that). It would be my own little adventure to the origins of rock. I would get down to the root of it all, away from New England and the New York, away from MTV and daytime TV (I'm starting to watch way too much Scrubs), I would rediscover myself by rediscovering the blues.

I told my parents my plan, and they encouraged me along through cynical teeth. At the moment, I am planning my 5-6 day long journey to the heart of early blues. I am going to drive 20+ hours down to the Mississippi Delta and see the Dockery Plantation, where Tommy Johnson, Son House and Willie Brown all lived, worked and played. I was going to see as many cool little shit holes as possible in Mississippi and then head up to Memphis for a Weekend. There, I want to see some live music, eat good food and be on my own in a brand new city. If all goes according to plan, I'll be back here in CT by a monday, ready to pucker down and get myself a real job in the real world.

I can't think of anything else to write at the moment, so I'll leave you with this haiku that explains what I did today. It's called "My Mom is Really Mad at Me for Causing Costly Damage".

While mowing the lawn

I chopped up a garden hose

and broke the tractor.

Broken Leg Blog #3

It's back! After countless hours of anticipation, it's finally here! You've waited and waited to see what would happen, and now the moment has come... the climactic conclusion of the Broken Leg Blog. Spoiler Alert: I get better!

After 6 weeks on crutches, I finally had my appointment with the doctor. I was feeling better and was hoping to get rid of my arm extenders for good, but after a 4 hour drive back to Pennsylvania, I was told I'd need them for another 2 weeks. This time, however, I was able to bear 50% of my body weight. I walked around normally, but just used my crutches to help support the leg. Essentially, I looked like a giant jackass faker. The shear embarrassment of walking around like Jimmy from South Park was motivation enough though. I started to leave my crutches when taking small walks and going out in public. Using it more, combined with physical therapy 3 times a week, low and behold, I'm walking around like a normal person again. I can actually carry something from one room to another without making it an afternoon-long event.

Physical therapy is the bomb. One hour long, I basically get to sit on a massage table either icing, stretching or getting my knee rubbed down. The place is really nice. All white interior, basically looks like some rich bastards private one floor gym. The walls are lined with personalized autographs from professional sports players, bodybuilders, wreslters and the North American mambo dancer champ. There's even a pair of Shaq's giant shoes, as long as my arm shoulder to wrist, signed personally for "Dr. C". I don't have Dr. C though. Dr. C is too busy flying to Arizona or Miami, or wherever Shaq plays these days to personally rub the goon's oversized feet before every game. My therapist's name is Jeff, and he's pretty fucking cool. Now I'm not saying there's any developing bromance or something, but I am glad that the guy turned out to be normal. The experience would be so much less bearable if I was being rubbed down by some bi-curious macho creep.

The last month has been quite an experience. Paradoxically, so much happened and yet I didn't do a god damn thing. Physically, I've just sat around all day and gone to therapy. Mentally, its been like a roller coaster. Looking for a job, just out of college, getting pressure from my parents all while relearning to walk. I've had some downer moments, maybe I was a negative nancy for a minute or two, but in the end I think I'll survive... I just have to find a job! Doing nothing all day was great when I had an excuse, but now my excuse has healed.

I hope you enjoyed the Broken Leg Trilogy. Personally, I'd rank it somewhere in between The Mighty Ducks and Back to the Future, but maybe your more of a Matrix fan...

Broken Leg Blog #2

Ahh!  Welcome Back to the Broken Leg Blog.  It's so wonderful to see you.  Oh wait, I can't see you, because this is the internet.  I can't see many people these days. Being on crutches has killed my drive to go out and socialize, mainly because showering is a 30 minute ordeal that leaves me feeling like I just ran the mile.  I'm essentially glued to my parents' property, patiently awaiting to day when I can run the fuck away from here as fast as I can. 

Last time, I left off just as I was about to go to the hospital for what was my first surgical experience.  The alarm woke us up that morning.  5 am.  The surgery was scheduled for 8 but I had to be there at 6 to prep for everything.  Up until that morning, I wanted nothing more than to get this show on road.  It was miserable, sitting around all day with a bare, broken leg, waiting and wondering when the healing would start.  That morning, however, I was feeling exactly the opposite.  I wanted to go back to sleep, wake up at noon and watch Californication with Courtney, eat sandwiches and smoke 'til our hearts content. Delay was no option, however.  The procedure had been planned and now was the time to begin the slow process of rehabilitation.  

The day got off to an ominous start when we got into the car.  We had been borrowing my friend Quat's Nissan, and must have left his XM radio on, because when Courtney turned the keys, nothing happened.  Initially, we panicked.  Not only had I broken my own leg, I had now broken my friend's car. The Nissan needed to take a back seat, however, because we had to get to hospital as fast as possible.  I quick cab ride (and 10 unnecessarily spent dollars) later, Courtney and I found ourselves at the Lancaster General Hospital.  Now, this place was a fucking hotel, I kid you not.  The entrance, the lobby, the elevators all gave off the feeling of a converted 5-star Marriot.   It was comforting, to be honest, because the hospi-tel was located in a pretty shitty neighborhood, and I wasn't about to gamble my leg on some back-alley surgeon.

After he paperwork was done, I was ushered into a typical, white wall hospital room and told to de-robe.  It was cold as an ice rink in there, especially with a paper-thin hospital gown on, and I sat, watching the clock on the wall inch closer to 8.  I was fitted for an IV (pretty painful) and had my leg shaved (pretty awkward), but I was grateful to be moving along, and so temporary discomfort was a necessary evil.  Soon, I thought, I will be knocked out cold, unable to see or feel the cutting scalpel carving up my leg.  Courtney and I watched some Law and Order on the TV, and just before the case's big break, I was ushered out of the room to go fix mine.  The surgery room was pretty sweet.  I was mad woozy and a little giggly from the drugs, and the multitude of people in there made the whole thing seem like a joke.  Before I knew it, however, I was out for good, and the whole surgical experience faded into the unconscious, like a dream I can't remember. 

The hospital overnight had its ups and downs.  I got very sick from the morphine, couldn't eat much, and had to piss into a plastic "urinal" every 10 minutes.  I also got to watch newly released movies for free, the Penguins - Caps Game 7 (which turned out to be a boring blow out), and was waited on hand and foot.  I couldn't sleep for more than an hour at the time, and was relieved as all hell when the time came to leave.  I spent the next couple days in the hotel with my mother and my girlfriend, and thank god Courtney was there.  Not only is she super awesome and the best nurse ever, but also because bathing was a bitch, and it would have been awkward as all hell to have my mother help me clean myself for graduation.  

Finally, the final day of college came.  I was super fucking excited, dressed up nicely and propped in my rented wheelchair.  The whole cripple thing actually worked out to my advantage on this day, because everybody was paying me attention.  Had I been healthy, I would have been another average student, lost in the crowd of kids getting the same degree.  As it was, I was the center of attention.  Parents pitied me, teachers stopped to see how I was doing, and the whole procession was reconfigured to make space for my new ride.  

When the time came to wheel me up on stage, my dad did the honors.  Laughter and applause filled the air as I took my degree from the school's president (who I think is a total dick), and we followed the line of handshakes until we reached the graduation speaker, and 5-star General, Colin Powell.  Now let me tell you, this guy is the man.  His speech was awesome, hilariously self-deprecating and simultaneously self-aggrandizing.  He didn't get stuck on the cliche subjects, made the whole crowd laugh and agreed to shake the hand of every graduating student.  As we approached, he smiled and said, "Congratulations, son.  You know, I just got out of one of those things" referring to my wheelchair.  I did my best to stand up, clumsily shake his hand and said, "thank you, sir".  For a split second moment and a three word response, that was a pretty intense experience for me.  I was able to shake the hand of a decorated American general, a former secretary of state.  As I thanked him, I realized I was not just politely receiving his congratulations, but instead thanking him for all that he had done for me. In that moment, I put aside all political skepticism and understood that this man was a hard-working hero who rose from poverty to achieve his dreams.  The man embodied the American dream, and it was an honor to shake his hand.

The rest of the ceremony went off without much fuss.  After tossing our hats in the air, I was wheeled down to the football field for the after party, said farewell to some choice professors and took pictures with my best friends.  The medicine was making me tired, and so my dad and I hurried through what was necessary and made for the exit.  The whole experience faded into memory as I sat in the back of the car.  The 5 hour trip home was extremely uncomfortable, but I knew that it was only a matter of time before I would be stuck on the couch for the next 6 weeks.  Besides, I had done it. I had graduated from that shit hole and would never have to go back.  That thought alone was enough to help through.

Thanks for checking out chapter two.  I hope you enjoy my writing, please come back and check out more.  Next time, I'll tackle physical therapy and the drudgery of doing jack shit all day.  Until then, I leave with another haiku, this one's about how lame partying with your parents can be...

My mom is a hawk

Won't let me drink on pills so

My dad snuck me beer.

Broken Leg Blog #1

Boredom.  That is what a broken leg will bring you.  And now that broken-legged boredom has brought me to this blog.  Boy, this blows...  Well enough with the alliteration, let me fill you in.

My name is Phil, I am 22, and I have a broken leg.  I broke it jumping off my own porch, during finals of my senior year in college.  Jumping off a porch?  Seriously??  Yes, seriously.  I can't tell you exactly how it happened, well, because I can't actually remember it.  I was D-Runk.  But to be honest, if your going to injure yourself, doing it while blacked out is the way to go.  I am told I was in considerable pain, yelling and unable to walk myself back into my room, but I don't remember one second of that shit.  All I remember is my friends standing over me asking, "Are you suuuure we don't have to take you to the hospital?"  "haha, nahh, I'm good, seriously guys, don't worry".  Well, the pain caught up with me, at about 5 am that morning when I woke up to go to the bathroom.  I don't remember waking up specifically, but I do remember rolling around in my bed and crying my eyes out because I was unable to get up and walk.  I grabbed my phone, called 911, and in no time I was off to the hospital.  

Waking your parents at 6 am on a sunday to tell them you broke your leg is tough.  Not being able to tell them exactly how you did it is even worse.  The severity of the injury was unclear at the time, and so I left the hospital with no real answers and no idea of what the future would hold.  For the next week, I shacked up on my friend's couch and had friends wait on me hand and foot.  It was pretty sweet, originally, and besides the pain, I was having a great time.  I got excused from final papers, got extensions for others and basically watched dexter on demand all day.  Pros included no work, lots of drugs, and all day tv (nhl playoffs baby!).  Cons included not being able to do shit, a messed up digestive system (because of all those damn drugs!) and no privacy to pleasure myself.  

My friends were great.  They helped me out with everything from driving me to doctors to finding me drugs.  We were having a blast until finals ended, and everyone went to Myrtle Beach, leaving me to fend for myself in the ghost town that our school became.  I ordered mad delivery, watched more dexter and attempted not to fall down on the death-trap staircase I was forced to tread every time I wanted food or water.  Luckily, after a couple days of isolation, my girlfriend Courtney came to nurse me back to health.  

The first two weeks of the break were pretty brutal.  Although I had enjoyed the slave-holding lifestyle, I was still pretty pissed about making such a stupid decision.  My friends being gone made me realize that I was missing a lot of fun, and although I had extensions, I still had to do some school work while immobilized.  

So that's it for Broken-Leg Blog #1.  I know the back story is a bit boring, but please come back, next time I'll cover the surgery, the hospital overnight, and graduation, where I get to shake the hand of General Colin Powell.  Until then, I leave you with this haiku explaining the difficulties of dumping while on oxycodone...

Digestive system

Giving birth to a pet rock

Once every ten days.