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2014/15 Winter Banter and General Observations

Baroclinic Zone

By Baroclinic Zone,
in New England

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Typhoon Tip

Typhoon Tip

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Posted

OT but I had a little too much eggnog when I was about 10-12 years old. Barfed my brains out and haven't touch it in the 56-58 years since...lol.

Overcast but sky brightened for bit before now lowering again.

 

I did that with a human being, in a way.  

 

Decades ago I attended course work at Bunker Hill Community College, where if you sign your name in proper English you graduate Magna Cum Laude.  Daily was the commute from my parents in Acton, on the Purple line, through the western suburbs on into North Station.  She used to get on and off at the Lincoln stop. Cute. Irish, with deep brown hair that almost tinted cinnamon-red if the light reflected just right.  I would later peer deeper into eyes that pooled blue like a Caribbean lagoon.  You know? That kind of blue. The freckles were not really a distraction, and being the ass man that I am, her's was clearly sculpted out of God's clay. 

 

Typically such creatures used to inspired as much fear as desire decades ago ... when in my physical prime my sense of self-worth and confidence could not have been any more out of phase. Yet, for some reason, one day while midway on the train, I summoned the courage to foster a little dialogue with this girl, who I thought I might have even caught the corner of her eye at one time or another. For whatever purpose she did, she at least knew I was there.  Hey, it was a start.

 

As usual, the air in the metallic tube occasionally wafted subtly through with waves of elegant perfumes, then the odor of diesel exhaust.  I remember thinking, perhaps wishing that time would dilate, lest the ride would be over all too soon. Alas! The ride arrived to her Lincoln stop, and she was gone. The image out the wind slowly accelerated from left to right as I watched her weave around the rows of cars, slipped from view.  

 

But all was not lost in the moment, as I slowly looked down to my thumb and index fingers gently clasping a small piece of paper, quickly scribed with "Kim, 555-3141 :)"  

 

"Silence of The Lambs" was the hot movie of the era. A week or so later, I donned in this throw-back, "Happy Days" black leather over blue faded Levis.  Kind of looked like a James Dean poser.  Skinny but healthy.  Just post adolescent.  Cheek bones more visible than the erosive force of time now allows. Hair combed back as though forced to do so by a flobey into some kind of mock mullet.  Basically ... a big dicktard.  But that cockiness of youth was equaled by her cluelessness as a beaut - both of us nineteen. Oozing sex.  So all things being equal, I called her up and there we were: about fifteen rows back at the cinema, watching Buffalo Bill sew skin grafts together into lady apparel.  "It puts the lotion on when it is told to do so."   

 

So romantic.  

 

Afterward, we found our way to an UNOS for a coke and a slice.  Basically, movie and a bite? Solid date.  Except ... it was becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore the waves of nausea welling ever noticeable. They began properly interfering with the mirth of the setting.  At one point, as she was speaking, I think I recall having zoned out while not intending to zone out, then sensing as a waitress passed by the table, the breeze that chased her felt excessively cool about my cheeks and forehead.  So, I excused my self to the rest room.  There I splashed water on my face, dried off. Paused to look in the mirror. Closed my eyes. Took a couple of deep breaths, and proceeded to dry heave briefly.  "Oophs.  F* feel like sh*. What the hell is going on. Why now?"  

 

Typically after an episode where nausea induces those sorts of dispepsic convulsions, one may experience a subtle sense of relief, however brief.  It is at least, a chance to pretend all is good.  I did feel a little better, so returned to the table. I finished my coke; that helped further. And before long I felt the evening could go on -- though at no point did I shine on to her what was going on.  And in some sort of irony, she chose that moment of introverted reassurance, to tell me she thought I was sexy. She described her impression of me, she said I was like a Kelvin Klein model, and that my image would be complete if she saw a cigarette dangling sort of precipitously from my lips.

 

Question:  If you are battling a nascent stomach issue, and was not a smoker, what would be the WRONG thing to do?

 

Her parents were out of town.  It turned out she was an only child. We found our way back to her house where approximately a half of a cigarette was committed to the self-sacrificial altar.  Oh man -- I don't know how I got out of there without outright barfing like ... at her, like a fire-hose, but Jesus that burner put me over the edge! It certainly forced my early departure.  And, she was some how none the wiser.  

 

That night rout on the worst ague I ever experienced in my life.  Crawling to the toilet through the night.  Cold clammy sweats. Covers down, shivered in chills; covers pulled up, frying.  Putrid belches that reeked of rotten potatoes - the only apt description I can provide.  Moaning, as nausea putrescence permeated my insides.  Head pounding.  By dawn, I was only vaguely improved. It was the utter flu.  I remember laying upon the sofa, looking at the ceiling, and seeing wave patterns as though peering down over Boston Harbor on final approach into Logan.  Finally, by the following evening, I was able to experience the overwhelming sense of joy in observing just about everything; really just an unconscious realization that I was NOT going to actually die.  

 

Unfortunately for Kim, that previous night would be the last time I ever saw her in person.  That poor girl. That poor good soul. Trashed away by an irrational association that I am utterly powerless to prevent, to this day, from tempting me to run to the toilet whenever her image passes through my mind.  Kind of a tragedy perhaps -- she may very well be my soul mate.  Oh she tried in vein.  A couple weeks went by, and the phone rang.  I did not return her call after she left several messages.  Finally, one day, some months later, when I thought it was all but ancient history, I answered the phone and it was her.  I think she even sort of cracked in her voice, like she was sad, and really hurt that I didn't want to see her again.  "I - I don't understand. I - I thought we had a good time?I thought - I mean I thought you liked me."  Her voice then wobbled, "I - I like you," ending in a whisper.

 

Of course I could not tell her WHY I did not want to see her -- after all, how would that conversation go exactly?  "Kim, you make me want to puke"   ??   It's just not a conversation one can really get their mind around.  

 

And somehow miraculously, I never again saw her on the train.   

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Damage In Tolland

Damage In Tolland

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Posted

I did that with a human being, in a way.

Decades ago I attended course work at Bunker Hill Community College, where if you sign your name in proper English you graduate Magna Cum Laude. Daily was the commute from my parents in Acton, on the Purple line, through the western suburbs on into North Station. She used to get on and off at the Lincoln stop. Cute. Irish, with deep brown hair that almost tinted cinnamon-red if the light reflected just right. I would later peer deeper into eyes that pooled blue like a Caribbean lagoon. You know? That kind of blue. The freckles were not really a distraction, and being the ass man that I am, her's was clearly sculpted out of God's clay.

Typically such creatures used to inspired as much fear as desire decades ago ... when in my physical prime my sense of self-worth and confidence could not have been any more out of phase. Yet, for some reason, one day while midway on the train, I summoned the courage to foster a little dialogue with this girl, who I thought I might have even caught the corner of her eye at one time or another. For whatever purpose she did, she at least knew I was there. Hey, it was a start.

As usual, the air in the metallic tube occasionally wafted subtly through with waves of elegant perfumes, then the odor of diesel exhaust. I remember thinking, perhaps wishing that time would dilate, lest the ride would be over all too soon. Alas! The ride arrived to her Lincoln stop, and she was gone. The image out the wind slowly accelerated from left to right as I watched her weave around the rows of cars, slipped from view.

But all was not lost in the moment, as I slowly looked down to my thumb and index fingers gently clasping a small piece of paper, quickly scribed with "Kim, 555-3141 :)"

"Silence of The Lambs" was the hot movie of the era. A week or so later, I donned in this throw-back, "Happy Days" black leather over blue faded Levis. Kind of looked like a James Dean poser. Skinny but healthy. Just post adolescent. Cheek bones more visible than the erosive force of time now allows. Hair combed back as though forced to do so by a flobey into some kind of mock mullet. Basically ... a big dicktard. But that cockiness of youth was equaled by her cluelessness as a beaut - both of us nineteen. Oozing sex. So all things being equal, I called her up and there we were: about fifteen rows back at the cinema, watching Buffalo Bill sew skin grafts together into lady apparel. "It puts the lotion on when it is told to do so."

So romantic.

Afterward, we found our way to an UNOS for a coke and a slice. Basically, movie and a bite? Solid date. Except ... it was becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore the waves of nausea welling ever noticeable. They began properly interfering with the mirth of the setting. At one point, as she was speaking, I think I recall having zoned out while not intending to zone out, then sensing as a waitress passed by the table, the breeze that chased her felt excessively cool about my cheeks and forehead. So, I excused my self to the rest room. There I splashed water on my face, dried off. Paused to look in the mirror. Closed my eyes. Took a couple of deep breaths, and proceeded to dry heave briefly. "Oophs. F* feel like sh*. What the hell is going on. Why now?"

Typically after an episode where nausea induces those sorts of dispepsic convulsions, one may experience a subtle sense of relief, however brief. It is at least, a chance to pretend all is good. I did feel a little better, so returned to the table. I finished my coke; that helped further. And before long I felt the evening could go on -- though at no point did I shine on to her what was going on. And in some sort of irony, she chose that moment of introverted reassurance, to tell me she thought I was sexy. She described her impression of me, she said I was like a Kelvin Klein model, and that my image would be complete if she saw a cigarette dangling sort of precipitously from my lips.

Question: If you are battling a nascent stomach issue, and was not a smoker, what would be the WRONG thing to do?

Her parents were out of town. It turned out she was an only child. We found our way back to her house where approximately a half of a cigarette was committed to the self-sacrificial altar. Oh man -- I don't know how I got out of there without outright barfing like ... at her, like a fire-hose, but Jesus that burner put me over the edge! It certainly forced my early departure. And, she was some how none the wiser.

That night rout on the worst ague I ever experienced in my life. Crawling to the toilet through the night. Cold clammy sweats. Covers down, shivered in chills; covers pulled up, frying. Putrid belches that reeked of rotten potatoes - the only apt description I can provide. Moaning, as nausea putrescence permeated my insides. Head pounding. By dawn, I was only vaguely improved. It was the utter flu. I remember laying upon the sofa, looking at the ceiling, and seeing wave patterns as though peering down over Boston Harbor on final approach into Logan. Finally, by the following evening, I was able to experience the overwhelming sense of joy in observing just about everything; really just an unconscious realization that I was NOT going to actually die.

Unfortunately for Kim, that previous night would be the last time I ever saw her in person. That poor girl. That poor good soul. Trashed away by an irrational association that I am utterly powerless to prevent, to this day, from tempting me to run to the toilet whenever her image passes through my mind. Kind of a tragedy perhaps -- she may very well be my soul mate. Oh she tried in vein. A couple weeks went by, and the phone rang. I did not return her call after she left several messages. Finally, one day, some months later, when I thought it was all but ancient history, I answered the phone and it was her. I think she even sort of cracked in her voice, like she was sad, and really hurt that I didn't want to see her again. Yet, I could not tell her WHY did not want to see her -- after all, how would that conversation go? "Kim, you make me want to puke" ?? It's just not a conversation one can really get their mind around.

And somehow miraculously, I never again saw her on the train.

Did you round any of the bases, or were you stuck standing in the batters box with club in hand?
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Typhoon Tip

Typhoon Tip

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Did you round any of the bases, or were you stuck standing in the batters box with club in hand?

 

Lol - no.   That's the point ... kinda. I got too sick and slipped away into the night instead.  

 

The idea there is how one's mind associates things... irrationally at times.  I mean, obviously she did not "make me sick", in the causality of the thing. But the untimely onset of the flu and all that ... you can't really penetrate that with logic. The brain, as perhaps some kind of evolutionary meets with survival thing, just sort of closes the door on any possible future association in the sense of self preservation.  

 

kind of comical really .. I mean, to have that happen over an actual person - you know?

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Typhoon Tip

Typhoon Tip

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Posted

Wow Tip, that was quite the story....I actually enjoyed reading it lol.  But I think you made a mistake man, you were getting the Flu plain and simple.  It wasn't her it was the Flu lol.  You let the girl with a Gods Clay Ass get away....what a shame!!  I was hoping you sealed the deal for gods sake!!

 

Yeah ... I know that.  The write is sort of satirical take on how people can irrationally associate matters.  It's what I was just explaining to Kev'

 

Believe me, I regret having not hung out with her again.  It was 27 years ago now, but I still remember it all with acuity. 

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Dan76

Dan76

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Posted

WOW

 

 

 

  • TonightSnow. The snow could be heavy at times. Low around 6. Windy, with a west wind 50 to 55 mph, with gusts as high as 75 mph. Chance of precipitation is 100%. Total nighttime snow accumulation of 36 to 42 inches possible.
  •  
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FlashFreeze

FlashFreeze

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Posted

I did that with a human being, in a way.  

 

Decades ago I attended course work at Bunker Hill Community College, where if you sign your name in proper English you graduate Magna Cum Laude.  Daily was the commute from my parents in Acton, on the Purple line, through the western suburbs on into North Station.  She used to get on and off at the Lincoln stop. Cute. Irish, with deep brown hair that almost tinted cinnamon-red if the light reflected just right.  I would later peer deeper into eyes that pooled blue like a Caribbean lagoon.  You know? That kind of blue. The freckles were not really a distraction, and being the ass man that I am, her's was clearly sculpted out of God's clay. 

 

Typically such creatures used to inspired as much fear as desire decades ago ... when in my physical prime my sense of self-worth and confidence could not have been any more out of phase. Yet, for some reason, one day while midway on the train, I summoned the courage to foster a little dialogue with this girl, who I thought I might have even caught the corner of her eye at one time or another. For whatever purpose she did, she at least knew I was there.  Hey, it was a start.

 

As usual, the air in the metallic tube occasionally wafted subtly through with waves of elegant perfumes, then the odor of diesel exhaust.  I remember thinking, perhaps wishing that time would dilate, lest the ride would be over all too soon. Alas! The ride arrived to her Lincoln stop, and she was gone. The image out the wind slowly accelerated from left to right as I watched her weave around the rows of cars, slipped from view.  

 

But all was not lost in the moment, as I slowly looked down to my thumb and index fingers gently clasping a small piece of paper, quickly scribed with "Kim, 555-3141 :)"  

 

"Silence of The Lambs" was the hot movie of the era. A week or so later, I donned in this throw-back, "Happy Days" black leather over blue faded Levis.  Kind of looked like a James Dean poser.  Skinny but healthy.  Just post adolescent.  Cheek bones more visible than the erosive force of time now allows. Hair combed back as though forced to do so by a flobey into some kind of mock mullet.  Basically ... a big dicktard.  But that cockiness of youth was equaled by her cluelessness as a beaut - both of us nineteen. Oozing sex.  So all things being equal, I called her up and there we were: about fifteen rows back at the cinema, watching Buffalo Bill sew skin grafts together into lady apparel.  "It puts the lotion on when it is told to do so."   

 

So romantic.  

 

Afterward, we found our way to an UNOS for a coke and a slice.  Basically, movie and a bite? Solid date.  Except ... it was becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore the waves of nausea welling ever noticeable. They began properly interfering with the mirth of the setting.  At one point, as she was speaking, I think I recall having zoned out while not intending to zone out, then sensing as a waitress passed by the table, the breeze that chased her felt excessively cool about my cheeks and forehead.  So, I excused my self to the rest room.  There I splashed water on my face, dried off. Paused to look in the mirror. Closed my eyes. Took a couple of deep breaths, and proceeded to dry heave briefly.  "Oophs.  F* feel like sh*. What the hell is going on. Why now?"  

 

Typically after an episode where nausea induces those sorts of dispepsic convulsions, one may experience a subtle sense of relief, however brief.  It is at least, a chance to pretend all is good.  I did feel a little better, so returned to the table. I finished my coke; that helped further. And before long I felt the evening could go on -- though at no point did I shine on to her what was going on.  And in some sort of irony, she chose that moment of introverted reassurance, to tell me she thought I was sexy. She described her impression of me, she said I was like a Kelvin Klein model, and that my image would be complete if she saw a cigarette dangling sort of precipitously from my lips.

 

Question:  If you are battling a nascent stomach issue, and was not a smoker, what would be the WRONG thing to do?

 

Her parents were out of town.  It turned out she was an only child. We found our way back to her house where approximately a half of a cigarette was committed to the self-sacrificial altar.  Oh man -- I don't know how I got out of there without outright barfing like ... at her, like a fire-hose, but Jesus that burner put me over the edge! It certainly forced my early departure.  And, she was some how none the wiser.  

 

That night rout on the worst ague I ever experienced in my life.  Crawling to the toilet through the night.  Cold clammy sweats. Covers down, shivered in chills; covers pulled up, frying.  Putrid belches that reeked of rotten potatoes - the only apt description I can provide.  Moaning, as nausea putrescence permeated my insides.  Head pounding.  By dawn, I was only vaguely improved. It was the utter flu.  I remember laying upon the sofa, looking at the ceiling, and seeing wave patterns as though peering down over Boston Harbor on final approach into Logan.  Finally, by the following evening, I was able to experience the overwhelming sense of joy in observing just about everything; really just an unconscious realization that I was NOT going to actually die.  

 

Unfortunately for Kim, that previous night would be the last time I ever saw her in person.  That poor girl. That poor good soul. Trashed away by an irrational association that I am utterly powerless to prevent, to this day, from tempting me to run to the toilet whenever her image passes through my mind.  Kind of a tragedy perhaps -- she may very well be my soul mate.  Oh she tried in vein.  A couple weeks went by, and the phone rang.  I did not return her call after she left several messages.  Finally, one day, some months later, when I thought it was all but ancient history, I answered the phone and it was her.  I think she even sort of cracked in her voice, like she was sad, and really hurt that I didn't want to see her again.  "I - I don't understand. I - I thought we had a good time?I thought - I mean I thought you liked me."  Her voice then wobbled, "I - I like you," ending in a whisper.

 

Of course I could not tell her WHY I did not want to see her -- after all, how would that conversation go exactly?  "Kim, you make me want to puke"   ??   It's just not a conversation one can really get their mind around.  

 

And somehow miraculously, I never again saw her on the train.   

Been stuck in a rotten mood since this morning and then I read this and laughed out loud, just what I needed, light snow, 28, E wind @ 7 mph

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