I got to the bar a little early on a way too hot summer evening. I’d ended up walking all the way down from the shop (thirty or so blocks) and by the time I got there, all I wanted was a cold, cold beer and some Tom Waits. A humid South Philly in the summertime is not so fun (and it smells kind of odd). What I got was an amazing blast from the past and a fantastic friend…. Back. Kinda.. You’ll see.

I was supposed to meet the Scumbag for a few drinks before I went to a show up in Old City. A few other people I knew really love the headliner, but in typical finn fashion, I was more interested in the opening act. I figured I’d meet the Scumbag, have a few drinks, walk up to Old City, take in the show and end the evening in a basement bar that wasn’t far from the venue. Because Odin knows I hadn’t walked far enough that day. But, five minutes after I’d arrived, the Scumbag called to let me know he’d be working late and wasn’t going to make it. I cursed his boss (and my own forgetful mind, as was the one who’d assigned him the project and given him a deadline that I knew was too short), and resigned myself to a quiet early evening of beer,Waits and the Murakami book I had in my bag. I pulled it out and slapped it onto the bar, waiting for the bartender to come over and ask me what I was reading. She always seemed to feign interest in whatever I was reading and I could never really tell if she was hitting on me.

But, this time, she wasn’t about. I could hear her talking to the guy ho came in a few minutes after I did, at a table behind me. At least I hoped she was talking to him. He and I were the only ones in the bar. “No, no, no… “ the male voice behind me started, “You’re missing the entire point of the clockwork castle.” After listening for another minute or so, I realized he was talking about The Watchmen. It’s a fairly fantastic read story wise and the art is littered with symbolic references that really reinforce who the characters are. At on point in the story, one of the characters creates a clockwork castle out of the dust on Mars and… Just read the damn book. But a good many of the points that the male voice was making reminded me of a conversation I’d had years before with someone I’d worked with in the bookstore. So I turned around on my stool and wasn’t too terribly surprised to see Mr. Wilson talking to the bartender about a comic book.

Mr. Wilson and I had fallen out of touch for absolutely no reason. And it was a shame, really, because during our tenure in the bookstore, he and I had become pretty close. Not “close” in a “we work together and I know small bits and pieces of your personal life” but actually close. Like getting arrested together close. Talking our way out of ugly biker bars close. He came to my first wedding and shared many a bottle with me. But, for the life of me, I couldn’t give you one reason why we had stopped talking to each other after I left the bookstore, except for the one I usually use. I’m crap at communicating with people.

So when I turned around and said “Hey, Mr. Wilson!”, he looked just as surprised as I did. It had been years since we’d seen each other, but it felt like about ten minutes. We sat and talked and drank for a while before I had to go. And it was just like it always had been, back in our younger days. The more we sat around a talked, the more I missed those old days. I made it a point to tell him so, and we made plans to see each other and hang out the next week. It’s not often you run into someone you haven’t seen in a long time and still have your relationship feel like old times. And when it happens, go with it kids… If I hadn’t run into him again, I wouldn’t be married again or have my little Uberbeast. You just might be surprised what you’ll get out of the deal.

thefinn isn't afraid of what he'll find, but he won't pick up a dollar bill that's on the ground. Archives

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I hadn't seen Geoff for about three weeks when I got his voicemail. He and I had worked together for a few years prior to his leaving the company and to say that I missed his wry wit and biting sarcasm on a daily basis would be an understatement. So, when I got his voicemail, telling me that he'd be around the shop for a few days, I called him back and told him we should go to lunch.

A couple of days later, he and I met up at the diner near the shop for lunch. And, in a somewhat strange turn of events for us, the conversation turned to women. Like I said before, Geoff and I had worked together for a few years, but for some reason, the topic of women had never come up. I guess it was because Geoff was scared of them. Well, no, not necessarily scared of them, but the possibility of rejection by them. To which I was flabbergasted. Geoff’s a decent looking kid in his thirties; he drives a nice car and has a better job than I do. He’s pretty neat and a pretty snappy dresser. I didn’t see the problem. The odds of him being rejected by your standard woman seemed a little low to me.

What really amazed me, though, was his fear of being rejected. When I further questioned him on it, he confided to me that what it really boiled down to was his fear of embarrassment. He’s absolutely terrified of being embarrassed. And that makes him not ask girls out and stops him from doing lots of other things. Which, to some extent, I could understand. But I’ve never let that stop me. Hell, if you add up all the stupid shit I’ve done over the last thirty or so years, roughly half my life has been spent in some sort of situation one would consider embarrassing.

Take my virginity. Please. Okay, no bad jokes. But really, I’m not sure how you lost your virginity (feel free to tell me if you like), but I lost mine to a girl I’d been dating on a bathroom floor at a party. What ? Not that bad, you say ? What if I told you that almost immediately after the act was completed, the door to said bathroom burst open and a couple of idiots, armed with ketchup bottles, made the place look like something out of The Shining ? You see, they thought it was my girlfriends first time (it wasn’t) and thought that it’d be funny to have as much blood on the walls as they assumed would be on the bathroom rug. Did I mention that my girlfriend and I were completely nude when the ketchup shower started ? Standing in a starkly lit bathroom that smelled of sex and booze, completely covered in ketchup an covering my rapidly withering erection with both hands and I couldn’t stop grinning like an idiot. Because I’ just gotten laid.

And that’s only fifteen or so minutes of my life. There’s hours of this crap. How about the time I was trying to impress a cheerleader with my leet skateboarding skills ? That’s kind of a long story, but let’s just say I ended up on my back with blood spurting from my nose and I was pretty sure I was paralyzed. What about when I finally got up the nerve to ask Gina Magana out and then proceeded to vomit all over her shoes ? Or the time I got sucker punched outside a bar and ended face first in dog shit. I actually laugh about that one now. You see what I mean. Any other person would be mortified. Terminal embarrassment. But not this kid. Because I really don’t let it stop me. So what if I broke my nose trying to impress a girl ? I eventually got her to like me and we dated for a while. I won the fight with dog shit on my face. And it cleans up pretty good, with a little soap and water, and if you’re too drunk to care that you missed a spot behind your ear. While Gina didn’t speak to me again after I blew chunks on her Chucks, her friend did.

I tried to convey all of this to Geoff and while he seemed a little hesitant at first, he cottoned on to what I was saying pretty quickly. Time will tell if he’s able to suck up his fear and ask a woman out. All I could tell him was that for every woman who says no to him, there’s another woman who will say yes. And sometimes you have to go through quite a few “No’s” before you find the few that’ll say “Yes.” Like I said, time will tell.

So, how about you guys ? What embarrassing things have you lived through ?

thefinn doesn't embarrass easily, but you're welcome to try. Archives

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Anyone who reads this column regularly knows how much I love this town. But if you base your idea of how this town works strictly on my columns, you'd only know how heartbreaking this town can be. I aim to change that. Now while it’s true that this is a heartbreak town, there’s an amazing beauty here. In the people, the architecture, the local customs… They’re the things that made me love this town in the first place. So, over the next few weeks, I'd like to introduce you to a few of my favorite places. Places where I worked, places I drank and places I just hung out and had a good time. They all form the city that I love. One I think you’ll love. So, for the next few weeks, I’d like to introduce you to my Philadelphia. And we'll start this week with my favorite little lunch place in the world.

Everyone who knows me knows that I have a penchant for Japanese food. Well, perhaps penchant isn't a strong enough word. A compulsion to seek out good Japanese may be a better description. Whenever I'm in a new area, I always check for three things, Japanese food, tobacconists and bars. Kind of sums up my big three vices right there. Lemme tell ya, if I ever find a bar with good sake and sushi that sells me French cigarettes, I may never go home.

Many years ago, I was working for a giant, international law firm. It was the closest I've ever come to selling my soul for a buck and one of the worst jobs I've ever had. My boss was a Napoleonic mess, a despicable little man who hated everyone he worked with who yelled constantly at everyone taller than he was. The QA team I was working with was the least functional group I've ever been a part of. And let's just say that the lawyers themselves were the most miserable bunch of bastards it's ever been my displeasure to meet. I hated the place, but a paycheck was a paycheck. Since I was a contractor, the only way I had to figuratively give the company the finger was to take my lunches by myself, away from my boss and the rest of the crap team I was straddled with.

Most days I’d leave the building, glad for the silence that can only come by immersing yourself in a crowd. Headphones on throughout most of these solitary treks, I’d wander around midtown, checking out an area I’d never worked in before. One day I was out wandering around and I stopped by a local electronics store to peer in the window. They had a really graphics card in the window. It was really sweet (especially for the time) but way out of my price rang, especially considering that the wife and I had just bought a place. After a mental “Oh well,” I stepped away from the window and noticed a little Japanese place next door that I had never seen before. There was no sign out and nothing that said if they were open or closed. But the door was open and I could smell tempura cooking inside.

So, I popped my head in and was immediately greeted by Shiro, the owner. He’s a very smiley, quiet(ish) guy who makes the best damn quick Japanese I’ve ever had. Make no mistake about it, I’m not talking about gourmet food. I’m talking about sushi, teriyaki and udon. Nothing terribly fancy, but this man makes shumai that you’ll kill your mother for. The place is tiny. There’s window bench seating and a large common table right in the middle of the restaurant. And that’s it as far as seating goes. It’s family style because Shiro likes to talk to everyone who sits down in his joint. He likes to meet with them and find out what they like and don’t like. He’s incredibly personable and really likes to get to know the people who frequent his establishment. People who come back here come back fantastic food that’s reasonably cheap and for Shiro’s consistent good mood

After meeting Shiro the first day, I came back religiously three times a week for lunch. I’ve had every kind of sushi he knows ho to make and several he’s experimented with. When I finally had to leave the blood sucking vampires, I’m sorry, I mean the law firm, I stopped in for lunch on my last day and to tell Shiro I’d see him around. He wished me well, and when I returned to the city a couple of years later, his sushi joint was the first place I went. Not only did he remember my name, he also remembered my favorite, soba udon and shrimp tempura. We sat and talked about the old days and it was just like I never left. Since I took my job in the ‘burbs, once again, I don’t get back here as often as I’d like. But every time I walk in, I get that famous smile and damn good food. Like a lot of good things in this town, Tokyo Lunchbox may not be the fanciest place or the most expensive. But it's consistent and damn tasty and for me, that's what counts.

thefinn has had a long, tawdry love affair with soba that the world was never supposed to know about. Archives

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The first time I posted this, Michele and Turtle had just announced their upcoming nuptials. Their news inspired me to share how I met my wife with you all. As it's been a long day at Casa de Finn and I've had little time to clean up the post I originally had planned, I'm reposting it for those who may not remember and for those of you who are new. I hope you enjoy it and look for a new post on Thursday.

-F

It’s hard to remember the first time I met her. Most things about that time in my life are hard to remember. There was a steady drip of poisons running into my bloodstream, most notably the whiskey… Whiskey was the great eraser, nothing could blow out a bad day (week, month, year) like a bottle of Tullamore. We were cleaning the blackboard tonight and I was ten kinds of self imposed importance and bravado. I had been talking to this kid I was supposed to be mentoring for about an hour, slamming back doubles the entire time, hidden away in a little bar on the right side of Broad. I hadn’t eaten all day and the hooch was kicking my head in something fierce, making time with the kid that much more tedious.

He got up to go to the jukebox. I tried to the read the menu that the waitress had set down in front of me an hour ago, hoping that by at least glancing over it she’s stop shooting me dirty looks and just keep bringing me the booze. Tonight was not a night for southern comfort food. Tonight was a night to get rid of the kid, get a retard drunk on and hope that someone would kick my teeth in on the way back to wherever I was going to sleep. Then, maybe, just maybe, I’d feel a little better than I had when I woke up this morning.

Luck not being on my side, the kid returned and started in on me again. We’d had a running argument for three days now about whether or not Perl could be considered a “post-modern” programming language. Yes, it was a pretty geeky conversation, but I had to give the kid credit. I’d leave him little openings here and there and he’d jump right in. Bright kid, that one. Did more than his fair share of dumb shit, but he could be bright when properly motivated. We were arguing the merits of persistently defined variables versus ones that could be defined in an array, on the fly as it were, when something from across the bar caught his eye. The way he took off, it was either another music hound or a bird. I didn’t care, but I had my money on a bird.

Tom Waits was playing on the jukebox. I definitely remember that. All smoke and hurt, the man’s voice just wrapped around me. I love that voice. The smoky, boozy, voice of reason bouncing off these little red walls. Oh crap, I was getting maudlin. I waved the waitress over and ordered two more doubles. The words completely fell out of my mouth, jumbled from a drunks tongue and too many teeth. She looked at me like I was crazy. At that moment, she would have been right.

She brings me my drinks. Sets them down on the table and fixes me with the look. I’m gonna get a lecture. She knows that I’m not going to start trouble here. I come here at least three nights a week, get stupid and stumble home. But she knows that some of the people I associate with here are… We’ll call them “Less Than Productive Members of Society”, mainly because calling them scumbags seems more harsh than I mean to be. They were good kids with bad habits, just like me. She also knows that most of them are in the bar tonight and that they’re headed towards raucous. So, she simply offers me warning and leaves me the drinks. She knows I’ll back them up if it goes down. But that’s not what tonight’s about. Tonight’s about erasing whatever I have left, dumping gasoline on it and watching that motherfucker burn. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll try again tomorrow.

Luck actually left the building at this point, turning when she got to the door and blowing me a kiss on her way out. The kid came back, looking satisfied. I’d been right, it was a bird. I smiled silently to myself as he lit a smoke. He told me he’s just run into a couple of people and that they’d be over shortly, both girls, both pretty. I was in no mood for fun. I had no time for frivolity. I called the waitress over again and asked for whatever she could fit into a rocks glass. She gave a little laugh at my joke, until she realized I was serious. She went back to the bar and I could see her whispering to the bartender…

That’s when they sat down. I know it was a they, because the kid stood up and greeted whoever sat on my left. She didn’t matter. The kid didn’t matter. Nothing in the room mattered except for the girl on my right. She was beautiful. Long black hair, amazing green eyes, freckles. My head was swimming suddenly and, for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t just the booze doing it. I actually had to exhale, simply because I had forgotten to breathe. She and the other two at the table started talking about a band, while I just sat there and stared. I was completely dumbstruck. Too drunk and out of practice to talk to a woman like that, I was grateful when the waitress returned with my drink. I drained it without thinking about it, lost in the curve of her neck and the way her eyes lit up when she got excited.

After five minutes of total silence on my part, I knew I had to leave. She’d be my ruin. My little plan of self destruction, so perfectly carried out until now, would be tossed out the window if she so much as smiled at me. I reached for my wallet, threw a handful of bills on the table and said goodnight to the kid. As I was putting on my jacket, she looked over at me and said “Nice to meet you”….. and smiled.

My knees started to buckle a little. “Dammit, boy!” said the voice in my head. She smiled at me. And I really wanted to smile back. I wanted to tell her sad stories of fallen kings and run my fingers through her hair as we listened to Bonnie Prince Billy on the stereo. I wanted to smell her close to me when I woke up in the morning. By god, I could do anything with this woman at my side. But my defenses were strong, strengthened by so many years of doing my self in and getting hurt.

“You didn’t.” I answered. And I walked out the door.

And that’s how I met my wife.

So, how about you ? How’d you meet your significant other ?

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You can call me a bastard now. Go on, I’ll wait. Done ? Good. Yes, I bought a Wii. It’s wonderful and sleek and lovely and possesses the most intuitive control system I’ve ever used. And I’ve played a couple of consoles. Currently the PS2, the SNES, the Dreamcast, the Gamecube, the Wii and the Xbox are all connected to the TV. These aren’t every console I’ve ever owned (and there are a few still in the basement, as well as a bunch of handheld systems lying about), but they are the systems I play often. I was goofing around the other day with the Virtual Console feature (it lets you download older games that you may not have had any luck finding at garage sales, swap meets, etc.) when something caught my eye. It was a game that I used to be really good at once and it got me into some serious trouble. I hadn’t played it since.

In case you’re a youngn’ or just not that into games, there was a time when consoles started outpacing the arcades. Tons of new games that were never released for the arcade audience, were coming out on consoles. After initially dismissing the rise of consoles as a trend, arcade games makers started to take notice when their larger francise arcades started to lose money hand over fist. Atari and Namco were the first to feel the pinch and after a year or so, they weren’t alone. But they continued to develop for the arcade.. The initial hope was that they’d at least make back their R&D money in their arcades and sell a few thousand units and make a profit.

One of the first games I remember them making a killing on was Street Fighter II. Street Fighter was released a couple of years earlier and made a modest amount of money. Enough that when a new producer approached Capcom about making a sequel, they said yes. Two years later, there were lines in every arcade in D.C. You couldn’t play the game, at all, unless you stood in line. And even if you stood in line, there was no way you were going to play by yourself. You see, the Street Fighter series is just that, a fighting game. So after you’ve been in line for twenty minutes, you have to play against the guy who been handing dozens of other people their ass. Two minutes later, it’s game over and you’re back in line.

I got eaten alive the first time I played. It was a Sunday morning and there was no one in the arcade except the attendant, a younger Asian kid and myself. As soon as I walked in, I headed over the Street fighter II machine and dropped a quarter. About two minutes into it, my character had been pounded into dust and I was dropping another quarter. The Asian kid came over and started giving some pointers here and there. And after about ten minutes, I was completely hooked. The Asian kid started playing against me a little after that, stomping me every time we played. But I kept at it until I was out of quarters and went back for more. After a week or so of playing at the arcade in the mornings, I got good enough to consistently take the Asian kid down. Since he wouldn’t play against me, and since I worked the afternoons and nights (when the arcade would be full), I started looking around for more machines. And, as luck would have it, I found one.

I didn’t work on Friday nights, and could have gone to the arcade then, but that was family time. And by family time, I mean that I went bowling with the people I lived with. It was always a lot of fun (hey, we were a fun group…) and involved lots of beer and shoe theft. It just wasn’t a Friday night unless we were drunkenly throwing balls at pins that kept moving about. And the bowling alley we frequented had just gotten a Street fighter II machine. We were halfway through our first game when we ran outta beer. And it was my round. So I headed to the bar area, empty pitcher in hand and thoughts of a turkey running through my head. I saw a short line over in the arcade area and headed over to check the action out. And there she was. I watched other players for a few minutes and knew I could take them down. So I went to the bar, grabbed two pitchers, and dropped them off at the lane. I told the guys that I was ditching them and went to the arcade area to rack up some wins.

Which I did for several hours. There were a few guys in the line that provided me with some decent competition, but for the most part I was running the show. Until He came along. A tall redneck with a mullet and a trucker cap, who was insistent on beating me. He had come up through the line like everyone else, talking shit to the guys in front and back of him. He’d been drinking almost as much as I had (after the first four or five rounds, some of the guys around the machine had started to play me for drinks) and by the time he and I were ready to square off, he was slurring like a madman. He finished the rum and coke he had been drinking as he came up to the machine, looked me square in the eye and said “Boy, I’m gonna beat your ass one way or another.”

I laughed him off as he dropped his quarter. And two minutes later, it was over. His character was down and mine was jumping about with jubilant glee. And the redneck pushed me. “Motherfucker,” was all I heard as his hands came crashing into my chest. He knocked me away from the machine and was headed towards me, his head down and his legs gaining speed. Now, I’d been drinking and was just having fun. I didn’t wanna fight this guy, especially not in the bowling alley I went to every week. So I waited on him to get close and sidestepped him, throwing my foot out to trip him. He bounced off the wall behind me and was right back on his feet, swinging and cursing at me. I took a step back, and then another, watching his fists and looking for an opening. But the booze got the better of me.

The booze slowed my reaction time. While looking for an opening I barely noticed his left coming at me. I ducked my head back just in time to save my chin, but not fast enough to save my glasses. He clipped the right lens ever so slightly and knocked them off my face. Let’s get one thing straight, I go Velma immediately without my glasses. I can see about three feet in front of me, but no more. And when I heard them hit the ground and the lenses shatter, I lost it. Fuck being nice to this asshole. All I did was beat him at a video game and he just broke my glasses that I can’t afford to replace. So I rushed him. I got right up in his face and pinned his right arm back. I told him to knock it off and he spit on me. Right in the face. So I head butted him, right in the bridge of the nose. I heard the cartilage go and his scream when his nose broke. I felt him go a little limp in my arms, so I let him drop and proceeded to kick him in the ribs while he was down. After two or three good kicks, I felt my arms get grabbed from behind me and I was pinned against the wall.

The cop who had pinned me against the wall put cuffs on me before he kicked my feet out from under me. Once he had been assured that I wasn’t going to start anything with him, he removed his knee from my back and led me to his car. I spent the night in the drunk tank while the redneck went to the hospital. Luckily he never pressed charges and I was free to go the next morning. But I swore off the bowling alley and Street Fighter for quite some time.

thefinn swore off games for a while and now only plays with those he knows. Archives

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What was it about the mid-sixties that inspired so many cool spies ? Was it the broads ? The booze ? The suits ? Or just the tensions of the Cold War that seemed to surface in everyday life ? What ever it was, I love the spy shtick from the sixties. Now don’t get me wrong, there’s no smoother spy than James Bond (Connery, of course. Are you trying to insult me ?). But some days you don’t want the smooth sixties spy. You want the wacky one. Or the sinister one. Or best yet, the hipper than thou spy duo. Two, two, two spies for the price of one! I love them all and here’s a quick look at some of my favorites.

Matt Helm

Matt Helm (as portrayed by Dean Martin in four films) is a smooth, sauced, roll with the punches kinda guy. Dean Martin basically took his onstage persona for these films (The Silencers, Murderer’s Row, The Ambushers and The Wrecking Crew) and applied to the tried and true “spy film” formula. Hilarity ensues as he fires off one liners and get himself out of all kinds of sticky situations with humor, wit and just a dash of cunning. And, as always, the beautiful thing about the Matt Helm movies isn’t the gadgets (although his “ten second delay” gun is pretty hot) or the dames. It’s Dino, being Dino. Throughout most of “The Silencers”, he’s a little hit or miss with the “I’m a little drunk and people are trying to kill me” routine but by the time we get to “Murderer’s Row”, the man’s got it down pat. He’s suave, debonair, half in the bag and he always gets the girl. It’s entertaining as hell to watch Dino does what he does best, be Dean Martin.

Derek Flint

When I think of James Coburn, I don’t think wise talking International Man of Mystery. I think of the cool, calculated killer he’s played a million times. But that was before I saw “Our Man Flint” and “In Like Flint”. Super cool secret agent Derek Flint lives in seclusion, surrounded by beautiful women and a doting staff that care for this no retired secret agent. But when a mysterious organization called GALAXY threaten the planet; he’s called into action once again. Armed only with his sidearm, a multifunction cigarette lighter and that sly Coburn smile, Flint saves the world and looks good doing it. While Bond can be interpreted as pretentious and self confident to the point of arrogant, Flint is the epitome of cool. There’s no questioning it. Any man who can fight his way through a madman’s army using only his feet and walk away with five new girlfriends is a man to be reckoned with.

Kelly Robinson and Alexander Scott

I Spy wasn’t originally a movie (and if one person brings it up, it’s curtains for ya….) but was instead a fairly complex, dialogue heavy show about a pair of secret agents who worked for the US Government. Robert Culp played Robinson and Bill “Puddin’ Pops” Cosby played Scott, a pair of agents who masqueraded as a tennis pro and his trainer. Their cover was that they were a couple of tennis guys who bummed around and played tennis against rich people, mainly for cash and room and board. In reality, they were tracking spies and traitors and taking them down. The interplay between Culp and The Cos is why this show is still a classic. I haven’t seen chemistry this good between two men in well… Let’s not go into that now. Let’s just say that I was young and my girlfriend thought it’d be hot. These two play off each other so well that at times you forget that they’re out to kill and imprison people for the government. Can’t recommend this one highly enough.

There’s tons of other good spies and these are just a few off the top of my head. So, how about you ? Who are some of your favorites ?

thefinn is often glad his wife doesn't have a bra gun. Archives

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It was already serious. She and I had been living together for months and every day had been better than the last. We’d rush home after our respective days at work to our crummy but comfortable little apartment that was directly over a piercing shop. Every night we’d laugh and goof around and every day she’d make me fall for her a little more. So yeah, it was serious. And the phone call made it more than that.

I had just left work when she called. My phone buzzing on my belt as My Bloody Valentine buzzed in my headphones. I knew it was her before I even looked at the Caller I.D. She always called me when I got out of work, usually just to see if I was headed home or out with the boys. It wasn’t like she really cared either way; she just wanted to talk to me. And that always made me smile.

“Hey kitten,” I started. She immediately cut me off. She sounded a bit apprehensive, off her game and very, very nervous. “Can you come see me ?” she said, “It’s very important.” “Sure” I responded, a little wary. “Great,” she said “I’ll take my lunch when you get here.”

I restarted my iPod, letting Kevin Shields work his magic on my ears while I turned the tone of her voice over in my mind. I started to tell my self that it could have been anything. Maybe a long day, grumpy customers, cramps, any one of a million things. The little voice in the back of my head told me she was breaking up with me. That what we had going was too good and she was the first one to get scared. I smashed that voice like the Hulk on a cheap truck. It didn’t matter to me who got scared first. She was the greatest love of my life. She made me swoon and filled me with confidence I hadn’t had in years. There was doubt in my mind that she’d be my wife. Come hell or high water.

By the time I’d walked down to the art store where she worked, I was more than a little confused by her anxiousness. All that evaporated as soon as I saw her through the window. She was helping a customer and smiling. I stood and watched for a minute or so before I headed in. As soon as she saw me, she looked down at her hands and started wringing them. “Hey, pretty lady,” I said. I kissed her on the cheek, as she wouldn’t let me anywhere near her lips. And that’s when she looked up at me, her lower lip trembling and tears just starting to well up in her eyes.

“Finn,” she said, “I’m pregnant.”

Simultaneously the bottom dropped out of my stomach and I found myself happier than I’d ever been. I held her while she cried on my shoulder for a couple of minutes and when she finally stopped and looked me in the eye, I said all the right things. I made her smile a little bit and told her that I was going to head to the bar across the street and that she should meet me when she got off. Her hands were still shaking a bit but she seemed to be in much better spirits than when I walked in.

My mind was reeling as I walked out of the store. In a few months, I was going to be a father. Something I’d never asked for and something I definitely thought I’d be. Snow had started to fall, covering the dirt of South Street in a fine white blanket as I walked across the street and into the familiar environs of a bar I’d spent a million nights in. Bobby was behind the bar, and as soon as I bellied up he knew that something was amiss. What’s happening, Finn ?” he asked. “Bobby,” I said, “in a few short months, I’m gonna be somebody’s old man.” He saw the look on my face and knew that I was dead serious. And he laughed.

“Look man,” he said, “I have a piece of advice for you.” “What’s that ?” I asked. “Always do the right thing,” he responded. And then he laughed again. He told me to relax and that I’d be a fine father, just so long as I remembered what was important to me. He poured me a pint and a shot and headed down to talk to a few girls at the end of the bar. For the most part, I could only sit there in silence, listening to the Dead Boys and wondering if I had what it takes to be a father.

thefinn sometimes writes funny stuff here. Archives

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“Oi, get up.”

A voice in the dark, and a gentle nudge in my ribs. For a second I think it’s the dog. But then I remember that the dog is three thousand miles away and still living with my parents. I, on the other hand, am sleeping in a walk in closet that belongs to the guy who’s kicking me in the ribs. I roll over to find Will’s brown smiling face mere inches from mine. “It’s fucking Christmas, mate,” he says, “Let’s go.”

I sit up a little, stretching and yawning at the same time. Will bounds out of the closet and starts waking the rest of the “house”. It’s actually a two bedroom apartment that five of us are sharing. It’s the first place I’ve ever lived “on my own” and even though it’s a hole, the people I live with are good, and the rent is painfully cheap. I look around for my pants and find them near the foot of the bed. I pull them on and pull the pack of cigarettes out. I light one and scratch my head, and stumble just a bit as I head into the living room.

Which is clean. Really clean. It’s actually cleaner than I’ve ever seen it. Ashtrays are empty, magazines are put away and Will’s guitar is not lying about in the middle of the floor. As I continue to look around, I’m amazed by the amount of cleanliness that was not there when I passed out last night. “Will ?” I inquire as he breezes past in a Santa hat. “What happened?”

He stops, turns on his heel and gets three inches from my face again. “It’s Christmas!” he says again with a maniacal grin before he heads back down the hallway. Jonny D appears to my left, dressed only in his boxers and scratching his skinny bird chest. He’s got a glass of juice in his hand and I wonder exactly how much vodka he’s got in the glass as well. “Will been into the acid again ?” he asks me. I can only nod in agreement before I go to the kitchen in search of coffee.

The kitchen shocks me. Not only is there fresh coffee, but the oven is on and there’s a turkey in it. There’s no dishes in the sink, the counters are clean and the dining room table is completely free of it’s usual D&D manuals, dice and graph paper mess. Apparently Will made good on his threat of “staying up all night and cleaning for Christmas”. I glance at the clock and notice that it’s almost two.

Slowly, we all get our shit together and wake up as Will jumps about like some slightly overweight dreadlocked pixie elf telling us that it Christmas and that he’s invited people over for dinner. I grab a beer out of the kitchen and join Jeff on the couch and we watch football for an hour or so before people start showing up. And show up they do. Apparently Will had started calling people early and had asked them all to bring something. Some showed with booze and drugs and others brought food. When all was said and done, there were thirty some people in the house, laughing and drinking and making merry. All who had nowhere else to go, no family to be with and all of us making family with those around us.

And that’s how I spent my first Christmas away from home. I was surrounded by friends, eating good food and doing ridiculous things under the influence of great drugs. I remember sitting out on the balcony a little after midnight, thinking that at that moment I had everything I ever knew I wanted right inside the house. I knew that there had to be more, but at that moment I lumped that stuff into things that I didn’t know I wanted.

And now, a little more than fifteen years later, I’m on my second (and most favorite) wife, father to the worlds smartest boy, and have everything I never knew I wanted. Some days a little more. And that’s all I wish for you folk this holiday season. Just a little more than everything you never knew you wanted.

Happy Holidays, folks. -F

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thefinn is running a "Best Of" in place of the article that he didn't finish because his boss doesn't understand the concept "Time Off".... His regular column will resume on Thursday, in which he'll sing to you sad tales of fallen kings and not rant about the man who makes sure he can clothe and feed his kid.
-finn

It’s a slow, dirty night. The cigarette smoke is hanging in the air, the bartender is playing CD’s instead of relying on the jukebox. It’s already ten and the bars got half a dozen people in it. It’s a Saturday and, even though I know there’s a shit show at the TLA tonight that’ll draw a big crowd (who I know will show up immediately afterwards), it still feels like it’s gonna be lonely…. I’d talk to the bartender, but I’ve seen him every day for the last three and he’s already seen the memorable bits of my late night shenanigans…

That’s the inherent problem with becoming friends with the people who serve you booze regularly…. You end up hanging out until four or five in the morning, hitting up every after hours joint in the city… Checking out strippers drinking themselves stupid after a hard night of shit tips and shittier customers (“You’re not so pretty when your forehead bounces off the table after your fifth tequila shot, kiddo”)…. Barbacks bitching about their tips and some sous-chef at some frou-frou joint up the street (“Ice… That motherfucker wants ice and I have three customers asking for me. Me!!”)… The same handful of young waitresses lined up to use the bathroom, over and over again ("Did you leave the mirror?") And my friends, the bartenders…. Well, shit man, they’re tired… They just wanna put their feet up for a little bit, have a beer and chill for a few minutes (“Take my shoes off and… ahhh.”)….

Shit. What to do ? Talking to the bartender is out. Play the Megacrack ? Not gonna happen. It’s one of the of the few addictive things I won’t do. Talk to the other patrons ? It doesn’t seem worth it. There’s a couple of kids in the bumper car in the corner acting all first-datey, holding hands and swooning. A few haggard looking kids that’ve been here since noon, most of whom seem half asleep. A couple of frat boys playing pool and calling each other “faggot” entirely too often for my taste.

I could play pinball for the millionth time, watching the numbers rack up without really paying attention to the game (Addams Family, FIFA ’94 or Kiss.. It didn’t matter, I’d rolled them all a dozen times). Or I could just get drunk and go home. Something needs to shake this joint up. That something, though, is not me tonight.

I call it quits around eleven, after some small talk about the previous night with the barback. The crowd is starting to head in. They’re getting loud and tonight, apparently I don’t feel like loud. I head back to the neighborhood, pick up a six and a bottle of whiskey for when I get home. Open the door to my little hovel with fumbling hands and say “Hi” to Guinness (the cat) who barely glances in my direction. Open a beer and turn on the TV….

Oh, shit. “The Tick” is on…. My night’s looking better already…..

thefinn stopped hanging out with bartenders and waitresses and now spends his time with Adult Swim. Archives

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I’m going to let you in on a little secret… I have no mechanical aptitude. And by none, I mean, I can’t turn a screw without needing stitches. This comes as no surprise to anyone who lives with me, as they’ve all had first hand experience with “my little problem”. I can’t begin to count the number of times that my wife has had to bail me out when it came to something mechanical. And hopefully, if I have any luck at all, I haven’t passed my little genetic defect off to the baby.

I really never noticed until I started hanging out with Jonny D. While he wasn’t exactly a genius, he was capable of simple feats, like following directions. He and I started building models right around the same time. Scale stuff of tanks and jeeps. Mostly so we could blow them up later. While he would always fly through them, I always struggled. It just seemed like the directions never made sense, no matter how many times I read them. I’d sit there and look at the pieces for a half hour and always end up with something that looked nothing like what I was trying build. I’d do a lot better if I didn’t look at the directions at all, but most times I’d feel lucky that my fingers weren’t stuck together.

You see, I was always much better at abstract thought. I could work a concept nine ways from Sunday, commit it to paper and work a group of people through it. If the concept I’m working on has no physical presence, no moving parts, and is completely unreal, it’ll work like gangbusters. I guess that’s why I gravitated to IT work. Sure, a good piece of software works vaguely like something mechanical, but when it comes right down to it, it has no real world physical application. And if that’s the case, I'm fine with it.

I figured that if I really set my mind to it, I could overcome my issues. In ninth grade, I signed up to take an auto shop class, with the express purpose of disassembling and reassembling everything I could get my hands on. My first day, I inadvertently drained the brake lines on our practice car. The second day, I pulled the carburetor and managed to get it apart, but it was a week before I could get it back together. And I still had parts left over. I eventually just said “Fuck it !” and started doing some body work on one of the rust buckets in the back. I got pretty good with the Bondo, but that’s because there’s no moving parts.

My problems continue to follow me into my daily life. It takes me 45 minutes to change a tire and that's with several years of practice. I can’t put a door on a cabinet unless it’s an all day experience. After I bought my first house, I decided that I would arm myself accordingly. I purchased every Do It Yourself book I could get my hands on and forced myself to read and reread them. I purchased tools and spent time in the local home improvement place, trying to figure out if I could justify the cost of a 5000 piece ratchet set on the off chance that I might actually need and use four or five of them. The first and only project I undertook for the house was to replace the garbage disposal. It took me all day, the kitchen sink was completely unusable and I still had to call a plumber to finish the job and make my sink useable again. After that, I started to gather phone numbers of reliable repairmen.

It took me a long time, but I have come to accept that I will always have my mechanical limitations. One day this week, I put together two shelves, and replaced the battery in my wife’s car. And yes, it took me all day. And I had to ask for help. And, once again, my lovely wife came to my rescue and explained that I had the battery in backwards and that in both cases, the shelves had one side up and one side upside down. I can’t tell you why I can’t follow directions. I can’t tell you why actual physical things make less sense in my head than random abstract concepts. And I can’t tell you why every time I use a screwdriver I end up with it stuck in my arm, on my way to the emergency room.

I can, however, tell you that the reason your client server application is running slowly and dropping connections is because the server’s connection to the middleware boxes is not running at a locked 100MB/sec but is instead auto negotiating and flip flopping between 10 and 100 MIPS. In about ten minutes.

thefinn is busy trying to stop the bleeding after a chance encounter with a pair of needle nose pliers. Archives

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I woke up about an hour late this morning, partially due to the fact that I’ve been sick and partially due to the fact that the baby woke up last night at about three and ended up sleeping with us. He has a tendency to spread out, so I spent most of the night getting punched in the face and kicked in the ribs while he tried to get comfortable. After flying out of bed and throwing on some pants, I came downstairs and grabbed a cup of coffee. But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why I kept smelling banana bread. And then, halfway through my cuppa and a smoke in the backyard, I started to remember the dream I’d been having before my eyes popped open. I’d been home for Christmas.

There are times when I miss being around the family during the holidays. They were always a big deal to my mom and she’d always get the family into the spirit. Decorating, music, you know, the works. But Christmas was always the worst. Because for my mom, Christmas started on Thanksgiving. Almost immediately after the meal.

Once we were done eating and full of tryptophan goodness mom would always turn on the stereo and start in on the pile of Christmas tapes that had been carefully placed there since the day after Halloween. She’d go thorough them all, before the holiday was actually upon us, several times over. And, more than once, they’d drive me to the back of the house, to my room and my own stack of tapes. I know she didn’t do it to make me crazy, she just enjoyed Christmas music a damn sight more than I did, which is to say she enjoyed it.

But the big day, was something else entirely. She could play all the crap music she wanted, just so long as she cooked. Most weekends, I’d wake to the smell of pancakes or banana bread and fresh brewed coffee. Stumbling out of my room, Dustin (one of many dogs in the house) trailing behind me, stretching and yawning, the two of us. Walking down that long, long hallway, knowing that at the end of it, there’d be coffee, a great breakfast and a kiss on the cheek from the Momma-san. We’d all go our separate ways after breakfast, but for those few minutes, we acted like a “family”.

Christmas morning was a little different. Every year, on Christmas Eve, all the kids would sleep in one room. The dogs would usually sleep with us, and we all made each other a promise. The first one up would check the time and wake the rest of the kids. As long as it was after six, the time the old man had designated as the earliest he was getting up on a day he didn’t have to, we were cool. Every year, it was my baby brother who was up first, and he’d wake us all. There’d be presents and laughs and my parents taking more pictures than should be legal. And then we’d all head to the kitchen.

You see, breakfast on Christmas was a group effort. Mom would have taken care of all the prep work the night before. And we’d all gather in the kitchen, with Mom acting as the supervisor, and we’d make breakfast and goof around and laugh. After a hearty meal, we’d clean up the wrappings and the dishes and laze about in the midst of another food coma, listening to Mom quietly sing Christmas carols under her breath while she did cross stitch. And that's the thing I remember most, her singing quietly while we all drifted off to sleep.

thefinn still has dreams about his Mom's banana bread. Archives

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It’s no secret to anyone that reads this column that I love this town. And why the hell not ? It’s mean, old and dirty and those of like minds tend to flock together. Actually, that’s not entirely true. During the holiday season, the town becomes a little less mean, and mired in nostalgia. The Wanamaker Christmas Light Show has been running in the same space for years (1952!!), even though the space the store was in has changed hands several times. Macy’s, who now owns the space, is still running the same show and has even restored the Santa Express train that so many of the old timers in this town remember fondly. Sure, there are still homeless guys waiting outside to threaten your children if you don’t give them a dollar, but the city still has its heart in the right place.

One of the things I love best about the town though is the winters. It doesn’t get really cold (negative numbers once you factor in the wind chill)until mid January or so, but it is cold enough to snow for the majority of December. And that’s all I’m waiting for this holiday season. You can keep the trees and the presents. I just want snow.

There are three amazing things that happen when Philadelphia see a decent amount of snow. Firstly and fore mostly, the city doesn’t ever look prettier than when the trash that consistently litters the streets is covered under a few inches of the white stuff. The streets appear cleaner, the plows shove the standard trash and debris directly to the gutter and the once great building that have fallen into disrepair look a little more habitable. Seriously, Rittenhouse Square always looks good, but a few inches of snow can make Franklin Square look just as pretty.

Secondly, the city gets a little kinder. You actually see guys holding the holding doors for old ladies, men carrying bags for their wives and only half the kids that’re trying to sell you candy in the street ripped it off of their friends. People actually put change into that bell ringer’s bucket taxicabs don’t give you the finger when they blow by you at 3 in the morning. Hell, it almost brings a tear to my eye. It’s beautiful.

Thirdly, all the bars are open. And packed. A good snowstorm is a fantastic excuse to go out and have a few drinks. And there are few things finer than sitting in a bar with your good friends, watching the white stuff come down and hoisting a few. Old stories you’d forgotten about get broken out, the jukebox gets a workout and no one kicks you outside to have a cigarette. For a few hours, you have a real sense of community. And when you wake up hungover the next day, it’s just the impetus you need to start hating them all over again.

So, how about you ? What’s your favorite part of the holidays in your town ?

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Ugh. Sick.

I’d been lying in bed, in one of the nicest hotels in Chicago, for two days. I hadn’t spoken to my wife for a few days and the voicemail on my phone said that I had fifteen new messages. This was supposed to be a quick in and out trip to one of the chocolate companies’ satellite offices. Instead, it feels like a little slice of hell, complete with daytime TV, sub zero temperatures and the sickest I’ve ever been.

Marco and I flew into O’Hare a few days ago. We’d caught the red eye and been at the satellite office around 1:00 in the afternoon. We met with the onsite IT guy and gave him the twenty five cent tour of the hell that we we’re about to put his network through. He seemed pretty okay with it and Marco and I settled into out usual routine. About two or so in the morning, we decided to call it a night and asked the local where we could get something to eat. He recommended a Chinese place not far from the shop that was open all night. So Marco and I headed over for a bite.

The place was small, almost claustrophobic. Marco was by no means a small guy, he used to play semi pro football, but he was a giant in the place. He covered three quarters of the table with his paws and his legs and feet were actually hugging the pole that ran up the middle. I actually wondered where the waiter was gonna put the food, so I jumped into the table right next to ours. The waiter took our order and brought us our food. He and I had been goofing around and talking all day, so mostly we ate in silence, feeding the machines so we could get up in the morning and finish this mess up.

Once we were done, we headed back to the hotel and checked in. I climbed up onto the bed in my room and flipped on the TV, trying to unwind a little before I finally sacked out. After about ten minutes of flipping around the channels, I started to get cold, really cold. Wrap up in a blanket cold. “Aw, crap.” I thought to myself, “I’m getting sick.” A few minutes later I was in the bathroom, exploding from both ends.

I had never been that sick. Sitting on the toilet, projectile vomiting into the tub. Wondering exactly when I’d start to see my own intestines and which end they’d come out of first. I’d had food poisoning a half a dozen times before, but never like this. After a while, my insides decided to calm down a little bit and I was able to crawl over to Marco’s room. I knocked on the door, as hard as I could.

He opened it after a minute, bleary eyed and in his boxers. I shuddered a little. Not because I was sick, but because, even after all these years of traveling together, I still wasn’t used to seeing Marco in his boxers. He asked me why I was on the floor and I just handed him my keycard and asked him to check in on me in a few hours because I thought I had food poisoning. He chuckled a little and said that he would. I crawled right back to the bathroom and had a long conversation with the toilet.

Around 7:00, Marco came over to check on me. I’d been in bed for an hour or so, trying desperately to get some sleep and not move at the same time. Every time I moved I thought that the dreaded bathroom cycle would begin again and I was in no mood to spend any more time in that bathroom. He checked me out and told me he’d be back, returning a half hour or so later with a couple of loaves of white bread and some Gatorade. Just so I’d have something in me to throw up.

I spent two days in bed watching TV and throwing up. Marco would check in from time to time, but he knew better than to suggest a hospital. We’d been traveling together for a long time and he knew to never recommend a hospital or a circus. He kept me well stocked with Gatorade and white bread and called every now and again to "ask a question about the project". And, after a couple of days down, I finally felt well enough to walk around the room without vomiting every three feet.

Marco and I finished up on our last day in town, a few hours before we had to leave. And it was months before I even considered Chinese food again. Sometimes the road isn’t always a picnic, but it helps to have a partner to help you up when you’re down. Lesson learned.

So, how about you ? What's the sickest you've been ?

thefinn learned the value of Gatorade and white bread like he does everything else. The hard way. Archives

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Previously in "The Living Room"

Part I

Part II

Pine street... There's a serious chill in the air and my breath condenses as soon as I exhale. Glad I have the whiskey in me to keep me warm.

The town’s too damn quiet for me in my current state of mind. If I'm gonna shake this funk, I need loud music and 24 hour party people to spend some time with. People who yell "Whoo" in a bar and order rounds for the entire bar. People I usually can't stand. Exactly what I need. The complete antithesis of everything I look for in a bar. And from here, it's about 10 blocks to Old City, where every bar is an expensive party and every restaurant is a "dining experience". Because I'd never go to a "dining experience" under normal circumstances.... But maybe that's what I need right now. Something I'd never do.

Walking down Pine in the wee hours is a beautiful and surreal experience. Old row homes, loving cared for, so that there’s not a brick or leaf out of place. So much tranquil glamour and quiet on a lonely little street is this dirty, busy, town. Ten minutes later, I'm standing on the same corner as a crazy homeless man who keeps holding the side of his face like he has a toothache. He's screaming into a 7-11 cup like it’s a megaphone. Apparently the CIA took over his life and now he needs a dollar to buy a bullet... This is precisely where I needed to be.

I wander down Market Street for a block or so, but can’t bring myself to go into any of the bars. They’re too clean and way too full of pretty people. Looking in the windows as I pass, I can see them giggling and pointing at of another. The women coyly checking out the men that are giving each other high fives. The bartenders smiling as they put another phone number into their pockets. Cosmopolitans, single malt whiskey and not a single unhappy face in the bar.

These are not my people. I need dirt and desperation and a jukebox that doesn’t contain Justin Timberlake. I want a slightly sticky bar and barely any overhead lighting. I want surly bartenders and a wait staff that doesn’t give a fuck if I’m having a good time or not. And I am obviously not going to find it here.

I turn off Market and pick a random side street, digging into my pocket and pulling out my smokes. Lighting one on the corner, I notice a sign a little further down the street. A coffee joint I’d never been to. I walk down the alley a little further, trying to fully make it out, cursing the lack of streetlights and my own bad eyes. About halfway down the block, a blonde thing comes out of nowhere and slams into me, almost taking me off my feet. She ends up on her ass.

“Aw, fuck,” she says, looking up at me, ”I think you broke my ass.” She’s a skinny little blond thing sitting on the cobblestones in front of me. Holding up her hand so I can help her up. She’s clearly loaded, but she’s not one of the pretty people. So where’d she come from ? I mumble a couple of apologies that I don’t really mean while I help her back to her feet. Once she’s there, she’s still pretty unsteady. She kind of waves in and out of my field of vision while I scan the side street, looking for…

There. There’s a bar in the old sugar refinery ? Well, I’ll be damned. The blonde thing starts asking me if I’m listening to her. I continue to ignore her rambling and walk away, towards the front door of the bar that I didn’t know, on a side street I’d walked past a thousand times. I open the door and head down the stairs.

Basement bar. Concrete floors. Brick pillars doing more than their share of holding up the fifteen or so stories above me. A little dirt and some cheap heavy stools. Prayer candles written in Spanish are the only source of illumination and a there’s jukebox playing The Pixies. Carnival and religious memorabilia lining the floors and walls. And there’s a couch along the back wall and a table for my laptop.

I belly up the mostly empty bar, checking out the drunk playing the Megacrack on the end. Cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes bleary and face badly lit by the LCD screen. “What do you want, buddy ?” he asks. “A porter,” I say. He gets off his stool and sways just a little, heading to the cooler for my beer. I stop telling myself to keep moving and find that I’m actually very comfortable in this dingy little joint.

Honey, I’m home.

thefinn like to have a beer now and again... Sometimes while sitting in a disused bumper car. Archives

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“You know the guys who live here ?”

I looked away from the little redhead I’d been trying to chat up all night and glanced over at the voice. Five-oh. Oh crap.

"Good evening, Officer,” I smiled. He gave me a look that said “Split.” So me and the redhead did just that. We were half a block away when we heard the rest of the cops pull up and saw the lights flashing behind us. We kept on down the street and hopped into a train station. Once we were down the steps she and I went our separate ways and I never saw her again.

Which was just as well. Every time, for the last three weeks, every party I’d been to had been raided. And there were few things worse than having the party get shut down just as you were starting to feel good. It was like kids I was running with were cursed. Or being followed.

I grabbed a seat on the train and stared out the window. Everywhere we’d gone for the last few weeks, the cops had always showed. Party in Southeast, cops shop up. party in Annandale, cops show up. City lights flashing by as the train rumbled home. The scene wasn’t that big, but there was no way that D.C. cops were simply following us. It was happening entirely too often to be coincidence. So what was going on ?

The train stopped at Foggy Bottom. I headed up the escalator and back into the night air. If someone was following us, who were they following ? They couldn’t watch the whole scene all the time. And hell, most of the kids these days were straight edge and vegan, so there was no reason to follow them, unless not doing drugs or eating meat suddenly became a crime. Or maybe I was just being paranoid. Maybe it was just my luck that everywhere I’d been the cops had shown.

I stopped off at the convenience store on the way back to the house. Once again, I’d managed to lose my pack of cigarettes on the train. Fucking Metro was damned uncomfortable and becoming expensive to boot. Charley was behind the counter, with his feet propped up, reading “Soldier of Fortune” and smoking a Marlboro. “Mr. Finn!” he said with a smile. “What’s happening., Charley?” I asked.

“What can I get for you Boss?” he asked. “Just smokes and a cup of coffee,” I said, walking past him to the coffee pots in the back. “That stuff is too old,” Charley said “You want new stuff?” “I’m okay, mate.” I told him. I poured a cup black and could smell the burnt coming off of it. I headed back to the counter where Charley already had a pack of Camels on the counter and my total up. “$3.69,” he said. I gave him a five and smiled. “Keep the change,” I told him.

Two more blocks to the house and I still wasn’t any closer to figuring out whether I was just being paranoid or if there really was a good reason that the cops were tailing us. Jonny wasn’t dealing nearly as many drugs as he used to, Andy quit beating people up in the street… Hell, the house had been deadly quiet for months now. Ever since Angela had left…. Oh crap.

I hit the payphone on the corner and called Angela, making small talk for a few minutes until I found my opening. “Ang,” I asked, “you notice a lot of cops around these days?” “No,” she answered, “Why?” “Ang, did you tell anyone about the little cash crop that Jonny was growing in the basement?” Jonny’d been growing hydrponic weed in the basement for years. But he’d stopped about nine months ago, right after he and Ang had broken up and she’d moved out. He’d broken down the setup and tossed damn near everything he couldn’t sell.

“No,” she insisted. And for a second, I almost believed her. “Okay kid. I gotta split,” I told her, “But we’ll talk soon, okay?” “Okay,”she said. I hung up and finished my coffee. I had to be paranoid, I kept telling myself. Maybe a good night’s sleep instead of partying all night was what I needed. “A nice long nap,” I thought to myself as I came around the corner. Right into the red and blue lights of a cruiser parked out side my house.

Sometimes, even when you’re just being paranoid, you’re right.

thefinn is still paranoid. He's just doesn't worry about the police anymore. Archives

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Not long after we moved back to Germany, my old man and I had a talk. He and I went for a walk around the neighborhood a few days after we settled into our permanent quarters. The neighborhood itself was nothing special, standard GI apartments and as little greenery as they could get away with. It was the conversation that really stuck in my mind.

“Look,” he said, “I’m not really gonna have time to watch you. Your mother’s gonna be working a lot and your siblings will have school and stuff, so… I guess this is where I tell you that you need to start acting like a man.”

“Huh ?” The whole conversation had come out of the blue and this was something that I definitely wasn’t prepared for. What the fuck did I know about being a man ? I was fourteen. I barely knew how to wipe my own ass and he was asking me to act like a man ?

“A man. You know. A man.” he continued. “You need to find a job, start doing your own laundry and still get good grades. I don’t want to hear about you fucking up and I definitely don’t want to have the MP’s call me in the middle of the night.” He slowed down his pace a little. He’d been walking to keep up with me and I always walked faster than he did, even when my legs weren’t longer than his.

“This time here… It’s gonna be tough,” he said. “We’ve only been a family for a few months and we’re still kind of settling in to each other. And with us coming back here, everyone’s gonna be a little lost for a while. So I need you to be a man. I need you to be the one I don’t worry about.”

He put one hand on my shoulder and turned me to face him. For the first time, in a long time, he looked a lot more like my father, the man I remembered from my youth, than my old man. The old man was stern, but he was a shadow of the man who brought me up. He looked me in the eye.

“I need you to keep an eye on your brother and sisters.” he continued. “I’m gonna be traveling an awful lot and your mother is gonna have her hands full with just keeping things running here. So, I need you to man up and take care of this place when I’m not around. And this isn’t optional.”

“Um, okay” I stammered.

And that’s the day I started trying to become a man. When I get there, I’ll let you all know.

thefinn has been "working on it" for twenty some odd years. Archives

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There’s something to being up all night tweaking. Feeling your eyeballs get dry, the spit drying in the corners of your mouth. No matter how much water you drink, or how many cigarettes you smoke. The edge is still there. It won’t go away, no matter how hard you try. And when you’d been up for two days on coke and speed, there was really only one thing you could do. It was time for a trip.

When I was younger, I did more than my share of experimenting. I did my share, your share and I borrowed quite heavily from everyone you know. So, if you’re reading this and you haven’t so much as smoked a joint, I’m sorry. I took your share of the drugs. I stayed up for days at a time, completely out of my head. And I’d do it again.

What I did isn’t relevant because I can think of only one drug I intentionally said “No.” to. That’s it. And yet, out of the multitude, one thing really stood out. I really loved to trip. I loved the speediness. I loved the perma-grin. I loved the fact that minutes would feel like days and that whatever was on the stereo was the best thing I’d ever heard. Some of the most fun times I ever had when I was living in D.C. were when I would wander the city on acid.

All that fun, though, had to come with a price. And when tripping you could always tell when the price would come and it was pretty simple to figure out. Hour Seven. You see, when you first drop acid, nothing happens. Absolutely nothing. You can walk, drive, hold a conversation with your Grandmother about her favorite brownie recipe. For about twenty minutes. After that, everything starts to accelerate. You start to feel a little speedy and start to grin. You won’t be able to do anything about either, so it’s best just to let the acid run it’s course. It'll go away after an hour or so. And by that point, you won’t remember how to grin anymore.

Not that it’ll matter. Colors will be a lot more vibrant, sound will be intensified and little things that you wouldn’t normally notice, suddenly become absolutely fascinating. You’ll wander through that world for hours. And slowly, little by little, the colors will begin to mute themselves and the stereo will turn itself down. That small piece of stone you’ve been telling about your Grandmother’s brownies will stop telling you to shut up. And that’s right about Hour Seven. Hours Seven through Nine (or so) are penance.

Everything you’ve ever done wrong will come back to you. The ants you burned in the back yard when you were seven will demand retribution. The little girl you pushed down the stairs in the third grade will want more than the lame apology you offered for breaking her arm. And you’ll start to ruminate on the fact that you’re not nearly as great a guy as you think you are. Soul scrubbing is how I used to refer to it. Because when all was said and done, ten or eleven hours into the whole process, you felt like a new person. A little better, a little cleaner, somehow. And then you’d realize that you’d been up for at least twenty four hours and that you really, really need a shower.

thefinn doesn't think that LSD is for everyone. Please consult your doctor before ingesting any high quality hallucinogens. Archives

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I’d been back in the States for a few months and had blown the majority of my meager savings on stupid things like rent, beer and a few CD’s. So I needed a job. Preferably something that would pay me vast sums for just reading on the couch and drinking coffee. I looked around for a few days but got sick and tired of being turned away because of the way I looked. After a handful of rejections in one afternoon, I decided to stop by the local Tower Records and pick some things up. When I got there, I saw that they had an old fashioned “Help Wanted” sign in the window and thought to myself that it must’ve been fate.

I have always loved record stores. Big ones, small ones, even the ones that look like junk shops. I love the smell of old cardboard and the dusty, stale air that you only find in a record store. I love the sound of the needle as it clicks into the groove. And I love the people who work in record stores. The stoners and the serious musicians, the artists and the critics. The guys who’ll quote you the first and last names of everyone who played a session with Miles Davis in ’65. The longhair who smells of something long dead that works your last nerve with his consistent talk of Sabbath. Freaks, every last one of ‘em. But they were my kind of freaks.

Naturally, I thought that Tower would be a perfect fit. Rows upon rows of vinyl and CD’s. Stacks of cassette’s that went on as far as the eye could see. So many posters plastered to the walls that the walls themselves were now several inches thicker. And some of the funkiest and most fun people I’ve ever worked with. Arnold, the Mayan. Vanilla Sue, the gypsy princess who delighted in scribbling posters to announce new releases. Pete the Fireman, who was as serious a Deadhead as they come, but also a volunteer firefighter. And Jack, the security guard who wandered around all day with a can of Pepsi in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. He never checked bags and robbed the store blind until he was finally caught and dismissed.

I loved that damn job. I got paid to goof around all day and stock shelves. Pulling out things I wanted and hiding them in the back until payday. I never really helped anyone find anything because we were never expected to be nice to the customers. I would head over to the video section of the store and flirt mercilessly with the manager until she needed a place to stay and she moved into our group house. We played and partied and all came into work the next day hungover and smiling. It was the most fun crew I ever ran with.

I was walking around town last night with the baby on my shoulders. He and I had been singing “Whoo Hoo” by the 5.6.7.8.’s for about three blocks when I finally decided to pop into the Tower on Broad Street and pick up a copy of the album. At least that way, I figured, I could share the pain with my wife when I wasn’t home. And when we got to the entrance I was shocked by the signs on the door. “Bankruptcy Sale” glared at me in looming letters five feet tall. “Everything Must Go!” and “All Sales Are Final” pasted on every non-horizontal surface. Tower had finally succumbed like most of the smaller record stores in town.

My wife and I used to make most of a day of poking around record stores. We’d hit up Spaceboy first, then Repo, off to Tower and finally A.K.A. Spaceboy closed up in August, A.K.A. moved uptown and now Tower is gone. I’d always wanted to include the baby once he got big enough to have musical interests that didn’t include Lazy Town or Thomas the Tank Engine. And it looks like we won’t get that chance.

thefinn likes to wake up early on Sunday mornings and play music for his son. Archives

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Internal Memo
Not for redistribution
New Hire Handbook
Eyes Only - FTTW Executive Leaders

Welcome to Faster Than The World Industries, a joint partnership between Bird Ltd., Testudinidae Inc. and Finn Enterprises, the three most influential publishing conglomerates in the world. Faster Than The World is the world leader, ISO 9001 certified and a dynamic, exciting workplace of the future.

“If we didn’t write it, then you’re reading the wrong website.”
-Mistress Bird – Addressing the Harvard Graduating Class of 2000

Faster Than The World originally started in a one room schoolhouse in Des Moines, Iowa in 1908. It was at this historic site that the company’s motto “We’re On A Mission To Destroy” was found burned into the smoking, charred remains of the schoolhouse after an enigmatic man known only as Tur Tel laid waste to the town after being marooned there for three days. As very few survived his wanton swath of destruction, little is known about the founding members of the company, save that all three of them had freckles and one owned a cat.

What is known is that by 1910, Faster Than The World had become a world leader by utilizing best practices and thinking outside the box. What had originally started only as an ideal soon began to transform the world and became the company you see today. With a diverse and original portfolio, it’s easy to see why we’re the best.

We here at FTTW strive to provide the best in content on a daily basis for our legions of rabid fans. And as the newest addition to our staff, you’ll be expected to work long hours and weekends, all for the glory that is FTTW. FTTW will become the center of your own personal universe and no sacrifice will be too great for you to help build and grow the FTTW Empire. As a member of our diverse and highly skilled staff, you will receive all the benefits that our loyal fans receive, which is to say none. However, you will get to work with us on a daily basis, learn valuable lessons and occasionally have the Executive Leadership Team beat you black and blue while in the throes of an ether binge.

At FTTW, we believe that our writers are our company’s strongest asset. We troll the four corners of the earth, seeking out and courting only the most talented young writers. New writers are handled tenderly and gingerly, in much the same way you might care for and cultivate a flower. We strive to breed creativity in a nurturing and caring workplace. But we’re not training flowers here at FTTW. We want thought-killing machines of incredible prejudice. We want you to write so well, other pages with written words become a vague memory in our audience’s minds. With that in mind, every minute you are at work must be spent at work, producing content for the company. If, for any reason, you are unable to produce for the company, please alert your supervisor. As an extra incentive to inspire your creativity, please be reminded that if you don’t produce, we will kill you and your entire family.

In order to maintain our profit margin, we respectfully ask that you limit your use of company resources. Remember that fully 25% of FTTW profits go to buying black market babies so that the Executive Leadership Team can b