Blinded By Bud Light..

Hook and peg-leg, not pictured.

I always thought it would be the alcohol that I drank that would hurt me, but no. The first alcohol related injury that sent me to the ER would actually be caused by a beer I did not drink. Here's the rundown of my little mishap the other day.

Monday started just like any other April day, it was warm and I was reporting for work, a noon to close shift. As I was taking in the sights and sounds of Dorchester St., I thought "What would life be like without my vision?" This came out of nowhere. Ex Nihilo. I didn't glimpse an old man bumping into a fire hydrant or a seeing eye dog or anything.. well maybe some Venetian blinds in a window

"What would you rather lose, your hair or you eyesight?", asked that part of the brain that exists simply to keep me irritated.

"Uh, my hair, moron! That's like Will Ferrell's Harry Carey asking Jeff Goldblum's astronomer whether he'd rather be the top scientist in his field or have mad cow disease."

Well that shut my brain up for awhile, and I thought nothing further about it. Later in the evening, as things were winding down at work, I thought it might be a good idea to stock bottles in the reach-in coolers. As I was stacking the Bud Lights, my head down looking into the darkness, I was blinded by a flash, deafened by a sound like a gun shot, and knocked to my knees with pain.

"Aw fuck! It hit me in the eye!" I yelled. I came out from under the bar, where a guest who had witness the action checked my eye, or what I assumed was merely a bloody, glass-slivered melange of sliced cornea and aqueous humor. Much to my relief, there was no glass (in fact a coworker later found the bottle otherwise intact) or bleeding. Much to my chagrin, I couldn't see much of anything and was in crippling pain. After informing the manager on duty, I, like a good bartender, went along with closing duties to the best of my ability. Finally I had enough, left the rest of the close to the other bartender* and took a cab home.

"Home?!" You might ask, and rightly so. "Why the hell didn't you go to the hospital?!" Well, the reasons are several, and stupid. Primarily, however, I was relying upon my Wolverine*-like healing factor. I have a resistance to trauma and illness that has kept me out of the doctor's office for the better part of 15yrs despite a preternatural proclivity to accidents. So I just went to bed with a bag of frozen peas on my eye.

The next day I was off, and in terrible pain. This was "open the refrigerator and the light from it hurts so badly that I almost take a knee" pain. I turned of the TV to watch "How It's Made". They were making, I kid you not, a fake eye for a glaucoma patient. "Well, at least I don't have glaucoma!" Then I did what any sensible person would do, changed the channel to "River Monsters". It hurt to have my eye closed, it hurt to have my eye open, it hurt so badly I had to turn the back-light of the television off and it still hurt. At this point I should have gone to the ER. But my girlfriend had bought tickets to "Book of Mormon" four months ago for that night, and damned if I was going to let major eye trauma stop me from going.

That's right, I went to a musical. First, I 'McGuyver'ed an eye-patch out of Brawny Basic floral printed paper towels and duct tape. Then I walked to Andrew Square to catch the Red Line. It would be fair to say I got some strange looks, paper towels duct-taped to my face and all. In fact it was rush-hour, and the only two open seats in the train car were the two next to me.

Once off the train, I made haste to the nearest CVS, and to the pharmacy where a rather flamboyant young pharmacist looked at me and hung up the phone saying

"Yeaaah, I'm going to have to call you right back. Hi, can I help you?"

"Yeah, I got hit in the eye by an exploding Bud Light bottle and I need an eyepatch."

"So, it's like just watery and red?" He took a quick look at it.

"Yes." I lied.

"Well, you could go with the medical white-bandage eye-patch which looks kinda..mmmm. Or you could go with the pirate eye-patch, which I think looks kinda tough and bad-ass!" I went with the pirate eye-patch.

I met up with my girlfriend at the theater lobby, and she guided me around like a seeing eye dog to our seats. I spent two hours at the Boston Opera House stubbly and eye-patched, looking like Snake Plisskin with curly hair and a more sensible outfit. It says a lot for the show that I was able to enjoy it immensely in my condition. Afterwards it was a couple of medicinal "Diamondbacks"* and straight home.

The next day I was feeling better, enough to sleepwalk through a slow shift at work, and so I decided that my decision to not go seek a professional opinion was actually the right one. Everything still kind of looked like it was underwater through the left eye alone, but I could read with it a bit. Of course my GF, my friends, everybody on my Facebook feed, my Mom, my boss, and Sadie from the market across the street all demanded that I go to a doctor. Thursday I relented, and she and I (my girlfriend, not the woman from the market) went to the MEEI (Mass Eye Ear Infirmary) to finally get it checked out*.

I won't get into the boring details, but the exam went great at first. Then the doctor actually looked INTO my eye. The retina was in place (nice!) but there was damage to the optic nerve, and some blood, as well as an inflamed cornea (responsible for the 'underwater' effect). She started typing on her computer. Then she asked if my family had a history of glaucoma. (No! Oh Science no!) Then she started typing for a disconcerting amount of time (and I thought I was out of the woods!). She told me it was amazing that I had 20/40 vision considering the amount of trauma I had undergone. I asked her if she was familiar with Wolverine, then explained my similarities to the fictional character.

And she told me I may have glaucoma, and prescribed some eye-drops for the inflammation that can cause.. glaucoma. I won't know until I can get a screening in a month or two. My follow-up visit went well, and a new doctor (when I related to him what had happened he said "That's a new one!") told me my vision had improved in that 48 hours.

"SNIKT! SNIKT!"*

Well, that's my story. The lesson would be, I guess, if a little voice in your head asks you if you would rather lose your hair or your eyesight, always respond 'eyesight!'. Trick the bastard. Also, have a mutant healing factor.. always have a mutant healing factor.


*Thanks, Danny!
*the comicbook character, not the vicious little animal
*Kevin at jm Curley's; applejack, rye, Chartreuse, I forget the rest
*Thanks, Soph!
*the sound of Wolverine's Adamantium claws deploying

Sad Libs..

 

I live in a        adjective                 type of residence          in a             adjective           neighborhood 
 of             city              . I live with my friend name of someone in the room. He is very 
       adjective        and likes to drink            adjective                type of beverage    and              verb              
           plural noun             . Our neighbors enjoy             verb              ing            substance            into 
 their       bodypart, plural         . One of them is              verb               ing a        type of fissure        
 -head who              verb                s in our back hallway. They are very         adjective           when they have    thing/s people do together   .

Nobody there takes his or her              noun                out to the street on        same noun         day, and instead leave it in a      adjective             pile by our       part of a residence     . An entire colony of           adjective                        small animal          s now calls it home. Sometimes a      same small animal      will              verb            out at me when I walk by the pile.

Several people have been        verb, past tense        there recently, a few have been        verb, past tense         or even        verb, past tense        ! One guy was           same verb          in the         type of product        store across the street just last      measure of time    . I live near           boy's name           Station, where there are always people                    elevation         on           substance          . Sometimes they look like      type of undead being, plural    !

But don't worry about me, I'm pretty             adjective             here, because I have a              noun              . Also, the people are            adjective            for the most part and they know I don't have any         noun, plural            !





 

Boston Strongler

I tend to get cynical about anything that people love. You can call me a hipster for that if you want to, but I've been doing it since I was a kid and it's out of my control at this point. This was me as a little kid, on the left*. I had just finished telling that robot kid that we're all robots, going through the motions of our programming by following outdated traditions like 'Trick or Treat".

I hope this doesn't come off as cynicism. I know this is going to be a controversial one, as people in the Greater Boston area get so into rah-rah slogans*,

but it's time to let go of 'Boston Strong".

Yes, on one or more of my delirious righteous-indignation-and-tequila-fueled post-marathon-bombing Facebook statuses, I used the phrase. I definitely ended a couple of tweets with it too, so don't bother looking. That was then, and I had a motive. The city needed a slogan to get behind, because that's how we are, and the one that was prevalent at first was "Pray for Boston". God I hated that one. It sounded so condescending, like we deserved to get bombed because of our perceived godlessness.* At first I thought it was a nice, if quaint, sentiment, but soon I realized every Evangelical athlete or politician who tweeted "Pray for Boston" might as well have tweeted "See what happens when you turn your backs on Jesus and let the Gays marry?!"

Maybe I just read too much into it, but  Since everyone was hash-tagging that, when 'Boston Strong" came around it seemed far more appropriate. I figured if we had to have a cheesy slogan, I would pick the one that doesn't involve muttering to an imaginary deity. Plus I was drinking tequila during that whole ordeal, I would like to reiterate. Now that hopefully I've made up for my indiscretions, I will give you

 

Six Reasons it's Time to End "Boston Strong"

 

1. It's unoriginal

Army Strong and Jersey Strong both predate Boston Strong (I'm done with the quotation marks) as slogans. New Jersey used their slogan after hurricane Sandy in 2012. That's right Boston, we're copying.. NEW JERSEY.

2. It's exclusionary

Many people in this country think that Bostonians are a bunch of drunk hooligans with goofy accents, who curb-stomp people at parades. Here's the video if you haven't seen it. Don't watch if you want to feel good about Bostonians.

Red Sox Parade Fight, Barstool Sports

If that's not off-putting enough, now we have a slogan that seems to imply that we have a special strength sadly lacking in other cities. Maybe we do, but going around chanting about it and covering yourself in the text from head to toe won't win us many friends. My friend Paul (@GrossArticulate) thinks it has a sort of "White Power!" feel to it. I think it's more silly and less menacing, more like "Gluten-Free!", but the point is; slogans that exclude others are offensive to those others. Then we get mad when Toronto puts out shirts that read 'Toronto Stronger' or Chicago with 'Chicago Stronger', et cetera.. like we have a monopoly on strength.

3. It's gone on too long

First there were the t-shirts that went to the One Fund, with the official logo and all that, I was behind that; the money (I hope) went to the victims at some point. The people who bought those walked around with them for a few months feeling good that they contributed. Then they put them in their closets, to be remembered on occasion; like my Red Sox 2004 World Champions hat and my 'Bury the Bears' t-shirt. Some things just have a temporal limitation. That limitation ended for Boston Strong several months ago, or at least after the world series.*

4. People are just wearing knock-offs anyway

like those bright, florescent pink and yellow shirts, sweatshirts and hats. Those are only fattening the pockets of t-shirt kiosk owners. They also make you look like a tourist, which brings me to my next point.

5. It has become the new 'Hahvahd' shirt

or 'Cheers' hat, or Mike's pastry box, or whatever. It's something that tourists buy as a souvenir. There is very little sentiment, and no relief for the victims, going into their fashion statement. It's become something you buy when you visit Boston. It's a tchotchke.

6. It's hybridizing in an alarming way

The original logo has been trademarked, I assume. This has led to unscrupulous vendors making all sorts of twisted, "deformed twin that we lock in the attic and never talk about" versions of it. Also, they just piggyback slogans on top; like "Never Forget"*, "This is our (bleeping) city!"*, "You messed with the wrong city!"*, etc. I've seen shirts with all of those on one shirt, for the value shopper.

Also, this..

In conclusion

I know that criticizing the continuance of a slogan that is loosely but permanently related to the tragedy which unfolded in April might offend some people. That is not my intent. I was deeply moved by those events, they affected me in a real way. Just keep in mind; that slogan was added after the events, externally, by people using social media. It was like a emotional band-aid for the city, and many throughout the world. Just like a band-aid, if left on too long it gets stuck and becomes irritating. So, Boston, World, let's rip that band-aid off, together. Why? Because..

Big Papi saying, well you know..



*Not really me
*Cowboy Up!, Ubuntu, Don't Poke the Bear!, Fear the Beard!, that's just a sample from this decade.
*Since the bombing was done by religious zealots, I think religion should sit in the corner and be quiet on this one.
*An exception, obviously, is the 2014 marathon.. go nuts that day.
*Now we're copying New York
*Don't get me wrong, it was tubular*when Ortiz said it.
*^^^ President Obama ^^^
*I'm trying to bring 'tubular' back.

You don't have to put on the red light..

Hi-Five

I was in Oregon when the Red Sox won their first series in 86 years. I saw the last out in a bar called The Cheerful Tortoise in Southwest Portland, celebrating with other ex-pol Bostonians and other fans from all over the country. It was awesome. Still I wonder how much more it would have meant if I had watched it here.

I'll never know.

Boston has a special feeling. It's cozy. Sometimes people forget that it's not nearly as populous as other major cities because it punches above its weight with important institutions and cultural influence. Sometimes though, I feel it is a little too small, or perhaps just lacking in some things that a metropolis should have. This, then, is my..

Super Unrealistic Boston Wishlist

This is list of things I wish there were in Boston, in no order of importance. Some could be done, others.. well lets just say you can't turn a granny into a go-go dancer.

Wait, I have to wait for Carlow to shut up?! Nobody makes Peaches Strange wait!

1. A Soccer Stadium In/Near the City*

I'm certainly not the first one to propose this idea. Just ask any Revolution fan you can find. Don't worry, I'll wait. No, I don't particularly like watching soccer on TV, but would I go to a game if it were played somewhere with public transportation? Absolutely, I would like to get drunk and sing outside with thousands of strangers, but I'm certainly not going to go to Foxborough to do it.

Ok, I don't know who would pay for this. Americans get excited about soccer the way I get excited about sobriety, which is approximately once every four years and only for a week or so. But it would be good for Boston, and for Massachusetts. We are a sports town, after all.

2. A Central Market

Ok, still there? I didn't chase you away with the soccer bit? Good, that was a test. And you passed.. barely.. barely passed. Why don't we have a great big market? I watch Bourdain on TV and every place he goes, outside of the US at least, has a gigantic market full of fruit, fish, delicious delicacies, people selling homemade salami and cheese, or crazy hot noodle soups that are supposed to be rocket-fuel for your, eh, 'love life'. Not that I need that. Let's move along.

Yeah, they're full of flies most of the time. The rats would have a field day too. It's a small price to pay to have a kick-ass central market where I can buy stuff that didn't come from Monsanto. I don't care about the rats. They already took over Allston; we could put the market there.

 

3. Trains that Run All Night

Not every twenty minutes, but maybe once an hour after midnight. Of course nobody wants to work that shift and the union will block it, but plenty of cities make it work. The public transportation shouldn't stop an hour before the bars close, not if you're serious about stopping drunk driving. Which reminds me..

 

4. No Mandatory Last Call

Yeah, I know everybody is shaking their heads right now thinking I'm a degenerate alcoholic for this one. Just think about it for a second. I'm not saying that every purveyor of alcohol needs to be open all night. I'm not saying any of them should. I think that the bar should decide if they want to stay open later, and the bartender should decide if he/she wants to work there. Most weekend warriors that you see on the street, (you know, the ones that give alcohol a bad worse name) are sloshed by 2am. Do you know why that is?

Well let me edu'ma'cate ya.

It's because he knows that every bar is going to lock its doors at one-thirty, then shortly after some Trapasaurus Pex in an extra-medium shirt is going to throw him out into the street with several thousand new friends.. several thousand new friends that all need cabs. Several thousand friends that are all now fighting over the one cab that is cruising right past all of them. Several thousand friends who are mad because they had to drink so fast to catch a buzz before 1:45, or mad that couldn't seal the deal with the girls they were schmoozing, or mad because they just got out of work an hour ago since not everyone works a nine-to-five and some people are sober and thirsty at 2AM! Yes, I am saying that both the bars and the streets would be safer and less full of obnoxious drunk people if the bars had the option of staying open later. Hey Walsh and Connelly, are you paying attention?

If New York can do it, so can we. It might even keep that well-educated 25-40 demographic from moving to a bigger city with better nightlife. They are clearly desperate. Just look how excited they are over the Seaport District, where frankly most of the bars are nothing special.

5. A Seedy District

OK, here's where Gam-Gam gets those Go-Go boots. I grew up listening to my Dad, who worked as a bartender in the eighties, tell me stories about the Combat Zone. Not that he went there of course. It amazed me that Boston, which I have always known as a rather Puritan town, once had a red light district. So I always figured he was exaggerating. Nope. It existed. That little strip of LaGrange Street with Centerfolds and the Glass Slipper, that's all that remains of this:

Dad, you're totally busted.

That's not even the heyday. I watch a documentary about Old Scollay Square.
Boston, the way it was pt. II (The old ladies at 7:01 are hilarious). It was a really happening place. It was a place where Harvard professors would holler for a girl to take off her top. It was a place where JFK could fall for a stripper named Peaches Strange. Of course I know that people won't line up to see a fan dance in the days of internet pornography. Nor do I want the residents of Chinatown, or anywhere else, to have adult theaters and pimps in their neighborhood. It just seems like Boston was much more fun in those days. I get tired of hearing how clean and nice the city is. It would be nice to have a dirty little secret, a place whispered in hushed tones and removed from the sanitized veneer we see everyday.

Will he ever return? No, he'll never return

That's it. Every writer in Boston has probably done a hack job on this subject. What do you want? I'm just getting into this weekly thing. No, I didn't cover any real social issues. Yes, everything I mentioned has something to do with eating, drinking, or entertainment. That's my area, I'm not trying to save the world. I'm just trying to make it more interesting.

Oh, yeah, GO SOX!

*How the hell did I forget about Happy Hour?! Duh. I want that much more than soccer. (10/23)

Nothing to see here, Russian hackers..

Good News, Everyone!

As regular readers of the blog know.. there IS no way to regularly read this blog. Unless you like to go back and revisit gems like the one where I spoof the Onion (a parody of a parody site- how meta!) or the bit about Downtown Crossing. That's because I am a lazy person when it comes to anything I should be doing for myself or for the world in general. Yes, I write solely for the world; Nobel committee take notice. Anyway, today I will be letting everyone in on one area of my life in which I am the opposite of lazy. I am a regular James Brown. That area is password creation.

Joe sent me..

Passwords were easy back in the days of Prohibition. Chances are if you went to enough of them, somebody would know a guy by the name of Joe. Boom, you're in. If I had any sense, then I would make my passwords all be "Joe sent me" (I'm not going to, so don't get any ideas about hacking into my twitter and freaking-out my 25 non-spambot followers with admissions of hookercide. Is that a word? It is now.) My accounts are basically speakeasies anyway, in that there has been nothing of value in them for years, due to the ready availability of alcohol. But that's not what I do when I create an account, instead I engage in a little game I like to call..

Let's make a password so good you'll never remember it in a hundred tries!

Here is how it works:

• Pick a number, then another.
• Pick a word. No, not in English! That would be too easy. 
• Spanish, no, that's child's play. Loco69? Come on, you'd remember that one!
• For the same reason, don't use 69. (13, 007, and 666; they're out too.)
• Try Ancient Greek, Latin, or maybe one of those Chinese names from the book next to your bed that you still haven't read called Poems of a Thousand Masters. Yes.. a thousand.. that will do nicely.
• Capitalize some letters. Not the first one. Jeez. Do it to random ones.
• If you use the same word for two passwords, just make sure to change which ones you capitalize for each one.
• Add, like, an ampersand or something, maybe in the middle.

Yeah, Sumerian, that will do nicely..

That's how we play make up a password, WTS style. Oh, yeah, I forgot the most important part of the game..

Don't write it down!

Come on now, that would be cheating! Besides, you know that you'll remember 3nAUtes&7wuLIN the next time you need to access that secondary account that you never look at but think might have a couple hundred bucks that you might need to transfer since you're stuck at an Indian casino enjoying the musical stylings of Steely Dan and your rent check is in danger of bouncing if you use your primary account but you don't know if you deposit a check from the account in question whether or not that will bounce and then you'd be even worse off because now you've bounced your rent check and overdrawn both accounts and you will wonder why you ever opened that second account in the first place and then you remember that you did it to hide money from yourself..

 

Which, Congratulations, you have successfully done!

Thank you for playing. Soon, you too will be on the path to being your own worst enemy. I wish you luck, unlike your enemy self. Speaking of which; that is why I suckered you in with Professor Farnsworth. The good news is I am going to try to make this a weekly thing. Yep, Carlow's Corner is going weekly, rather than bi-yearly or whatever. That might mean that quality and length might suffer, but nobody has ever accused me of either. Wild Tuesday Sandwich!? Hmmm..

Welcome to Bunker 14

Welcome!

Welcome, Mr S, to Bunker 14. I am your electronic host, butler, concierge and taxi 1011101010011101010011110111111011011011101, but feel free to call me whatever you like. Please forgive the exterior, we simply cannot have everyone know what is going on here and the ‘rundown trailer-park’ with the ‘blood-thirsty cannibals’ facade keeps most prying eyes away. You have worked too hard to get to this station in life to have the hoi polloi simply banging down the door, so to speak. Being your first time here, it is my duty and honor to give you a tour and explain our amenities. Some of the members here like to refer to this place as “Pleasure Island”; I believe it is in reference to the movie Pinocchio from the mid-twentieth century. I appreciate the irony of calling a bunker an island, although in some ways it is an island, is it not? My irony chip is a ‘Junk’ model and since, as I’m sure you are aware, the devices are even named ironically, that means it is an excellent one. Your jokes and sarcasm and illogical monikers will be fully understood by this unit, should you choose to communicate in that way. Please, have a seat in my plush interior.

Have you brought your lovely wife to the bunker today? Haha. I told you I had a sense of humor. If you do desire companionship of the female (or male) variety, it is offered for a reasonable fee, with services available a la carte and billed discreetly to your membership. Just be careful where you leave your bill or someone might ask about your kayak expeditions and Tai Chi lessons. If you desire kayak expeditions or Tai Chi lessons those are available as well, but will be billed as prostitution. Haha. I am ‘joshing’ you. Are you enjoying my colloquialisms yet? No? Get to the steaks already? I see someone had ‘loose lips’; happens all the time. Haha. Confidentiality means little when it comes to expertly charred bovine flesh these days. Follow me down this lovely mirrored hallway, it is modelled after the one at Versailles. I mean of course the one that used to be at Versailles. It is a shame what happened to Paris, non? I am certain you noticed the checkerboard marble floors, our builders spared no expense.

    Straight ahead to the forum, just to the right of the Trevi Fountain replica, (this place is deceptively large is it not?) you will find our steak house. It is one of only 20 left in the world. How, you may ask, do we get our steak in these troubling times when cannibal kings still control Florida, and even some civilized places? Just listen to our founder, Jim McClintock explain. Please direct your attention to the holograph.

Howdy, I’m Big Jim McClintock. 2032 was a tough year, maybe the worst year ever. Those vegan terrorists finally did it, set off their ‘Final Solution’ biological weapon to end the ‘suffering’ of domestic animals. Now, I’m no scientist, but all of sudden it seemed like a highly contagious zoonotic pathogen targeted the respiratory system of every bovine, porcine, canine, equine and other domestic species on Earth. Well, as you know, most people would rather eat any ol’ critter than go vegan, what with all that soy and kale.. it’s not American! I don’t need to remind you what happened after we hunted and fished what was left! Relax, partner. We are selling you the real McCoy. While all the plebs out there can dine on gluten-free macrobiotic vegan mac and cheese or leg of Steve, you can have a porterhouse. My partners and I, all over the world, rounded-up the few scattered surviving steer from all over the globe with the disease resistant Xa14 gene and secured a breeding population on one of our secluded ranches in West Texas. Not a few ‘eggs’ were broke to make that ‘omelet’ I’ll tell ya’. Thank goodness for our guard drones and their disregard for human life. Well, Ol’ Jim has taken too much of your time already. Enjoy!

Charming, no? He’s from Connecticut. If you are feeling nostalgic, you can eat at our replica McDonalds. It is one of only six in existence. We have replicated everything from the late twentieth century menus, including the pre-2018 buns that still contained gluten! A ‘Number Three”, medium, is only $15,000! The only thing our scientists were not able to replicate was the McRib, but experiments are underway using pork from Florida. Early tests are promising. Not hungry anymore? Perhaps you would like to have a Twinkie? Of course you do not want eat one! That would be like eating a da Vinci, and probably just as tasty. We have one of the only five left in the world, that we know of. And boy have we looked! Haha. If you would like to see it, you need only visit our full-sized replica of the Louvre, located in the middle of the Bunker 14 complex. Feel free to keep your collection there, it will be safer there than anywhere else; our nineteen other bunker facilities aside, of course. Besides, anyone you would like to impress with it will certainly be here on a regular basis. Follow me into this transport unit, please.

Welcome to your executive suite. All we have are executive suites; that you know of at least. Haha. Per your specifications, your patio has a holographic image of Maui, but turn it off to see our indoor ski slope and the 18 hole golf course. Our go-cart track is a full-sized replica of the “Mushroom City” level from Mario Kart, 1990’s pop-culture being all the rage with your set.  Would you like to relax with a Cuban cigar? We have some of the last ones produced before the Mormon invasion; a mere $289,000. Perhaps you like to unwind with a little marijuana? Haha, of course not. The cocaine dispenser is located in your bathroom, between the Viagra dispenser and the automated defibrillator-bot. This is where I must leave you, but feel free to use this device to summon my help at your tiniest whim. You worked hard to get here, enjoy yourself. I am leaving, there is no need to be rude..

Ten-Year-Old Me and the Time Machine

 It was 1989, Weymouth, Massachusetts; Ralph Talbot Elementary School. Ten Year Old Me was at recess wearing brown pants and an equally brown shirt with a stegosaurus on it. The shirt said “Save the dinosaurs.” I think I got it at the science museum, but my mother might have purchased it for me somewhere else. I don’t know if the brown-brown ensemble was her idea; the years have shown her to have better taste than that. I fear I had nobody else to blame for looking like a chubby, pale underage UPS employee.

Most ten-year-olds have a dream future: “I want to play for the Red Sox!” or “I want to be President!” or “I want to be Garfield!” Ten Year Old Me had a slightly different plan. He felt that time machine technology was most likely imminent, and would certainly be made available to a certain chromatically challenged dresser. And for some reason (perhaps the stability of the space-time continuum) only to him. Yes, the brainy lab-coat types would search for TYOM like wandering lamas looking for the reincarnation of their former master. Upon finding my third period class, or possibly waylaying me in the science section of the library behind the ‘Apple Iie’s, they would test me by asking how many planets there were (9, at the time) or what scale began with absolute zero (Kelvin of course).

One possible scenario.

Forthwith I would receive the prototype and be allowed to go home early for beta testing. Not that I knew what beta testing was at that point. Once safely in my parents’ basement I would reach into my Trapper-Keeper and take out the plans, written in front of a mirror ala da Vinci, and begin my plan for World Domination. Ten Year Old Me had a plan. I had read about the Silk Road and the race to find an easier path to the Orient for spices in the 15^th century in history class and remembered the bit about pepper being worth more than gold. I did the math. Mowing the lawn got me 5 bucks or so. Pepper was about a dollar or so per jar. All TYOM had to do was to tear a wormhole through the fourth dimension (or whatever sci-fi plot device I had in mind to explain the logistics) after setting the coordinates for 15^th century England. I picked England because I spoke English, of course. I was vaguely aware that English was different back then but since my best friend's parents were from Ireland and since I could mostly understand them I figured I was aces.

Once I had safely landed in ‘Merry Olde England’, I would seek out the nearest noble; perhaps the king or maybe that “Duke of Earl’ my father was always going on about. I would, of course, immediately be presented to said noble with a hand full of peppercorns. I would wait for him to push his eyes back into their sockets and then commence the negotiations. Now, you might ask, how was I to prevent him from simply taking the peppercorns and having me thrown in the dungeon? I had a camouflaged bag hidden in the woods full of many more, and could sell them at my leisure with the promise of copious peppercorns to keep the Duke of Earl honest. What if some peasant found my backpack? Easy, they had neither nylon nor camouflage at that point in history so it would have been basically invisible. The time machine would be kept on my person, of course, in case of emergencies.

 

OK, maybe I'd bring back a couple of 'princess babes' too.

After being rewarded with gold, land, and titles, I would spend my time between epochs. Concerned about a ten year old catastrophically wiping out life as we know it or creating a dystopian future where the Allies lost World War II and Rick Astley never rose to the top of the charts? Relax! Ten Year Old Me had seen Back to the Future, and was therefore aware of the perils of changing the past. I wouldn’t accidentally start courting my grand (to the power of n) mother or declare war on the Holy Roman Empire. I would only bring the gold to 1989 and buy a Game Boy and a James Bond villain hideout. And some astronaut ice cream, I loved that stuff. How would a ten year old defend himself in Renaissance England? I would have an Uzi, of course. Because if someone was dumb enough to give Ten Year Old Me a time Machine, why not an Uzi too?