It's a mad mad world...

Cue the Bagpipes

2011-04-20T21:49:00.000-07:00

One of my many life roles finds me as the Senior Instructor for my department's recruit training program. As some of you may know, I've been a fireman for ten years, collectively. After a particularly rigorous Saturday class I decided to give the recruits a motivational speech. I'll spare you the pep talk but at the end I asked that they each take the next few days to really think about why they were there. A few days later, class resumed minus a recruit or two. I reminded them of my request and asked how many had actually given it any serious thought. A few hands went up. Then something unexpected happened. One of the recruits asked me, "Why do YOU do this". I gave a quick, humorous response but the question stuck. Why DO I do this? At the time I had no answer.
My Grandfather was a Fireman in Nyack, New York for several decades. He was a chauffeur for many years, was one of the founding members of the Nyack Ambulance Corp. and as his health deteriorated, he stayed on in an admin role. When I was growing up I spent a great deal of time with my Grandparents in Nyack. In fact, as many places as I had lived before departing New York, I still credit Nyack as where I grew up. Some of my earliest memories are of my Pop-Pop's fire house, Highland Hose engine Company 5.
Highland Hose station was built in 1910. When I was a kid it housed (and still houses) a mint condition 1949 Ahrens-Fox, which was taken out of service in 1986. They still use it today for parades and special events and it still looks as good now as it always has. I have memories of watching it go by in parades, waving at my Pop-Pop as he sat behind the wheel. I remember the pure elation as he waved back. I've met a few celebrities here and there throughout my life and I can say that none of them matched the feeling of seeing my Pop-Pop wave back at me from the drivers seat of that Engine. I remember the respect he commanded, not just within his department but around the entire town. Business owners, town officials, Police, they all new him and they all respected him. To me he stood as a giant.
When I was about ten years old, he passed away unexpectedly. He went up to his room to go to sleep and just didn't wake up. He went peacefully. One of the things I'll never forget is the funeral procession. It was incredible. Behind the cars were the Nyack Fire Department apparatus. The 49 Ahrens-Fox was there, hose bed loaded with more flowers than I had ever seen. Behind that, a sea of firemen all dressed in blue, white gloves and polished shoes. Their dress hats down low, two fingers above the brow. All of them marching in step, rank and file. I remember being sad at having to bury my Grandfather but more so I remember being filled with unmatched pride at the life of service he gave.
26 years later I was in New York visiting family and found myself standing in my Grandfather's fire house once again. This time as a seasoned fireman. I stood in front of the Ahrens-Fox for the first time in decades and I was immediately transported back to being a 6 year old boy again. I was given the grand tour by a member of the station who, coincidentally, grew up with my Father and knew me pretty much from birth. I looked around to see a few pictures of my Pop-Pop hanging neatly on the walls. Along with them were pictures of other members who had come and gone since the Engine Company's inception back in 1895. As we sat at the bar and had a beer together, he asked me about my fire career and the things I had done. We shared war stories and he briefed me on the economic state of the department. He asked me if I ever planned on moving back to New York. I told him that I one day hope to retire in Nyack but if I wasn't to old by then, I'd love more than anything to be a member of Highland Hose Engine Company. He responded with, "You're a Boreman, you always have a place here. This is your home". I nodded silently. I didn't need to thank him. My place had been earned two generations ago.
So why do I do this? I do this because it's in my blood. I do it because deep down in my DNA, something tells me that it's what I'm supposed to do. I feel as much of a need to be a fireman as I do to eat or breath. I do it because it is what I am.

"Soldiering Starts Here"

2011-02-28T13:45:00.000-08:00

I joined the Army when I was 18 but due to an ankle injury I didn’t get to leave for basic training until just after my 19th birthday. When I enlisted, my test scores permitted me to choose pretty much any job I wanted. The recruiter offered me something called Encryption and Decryption Specialist. It was a military intelligence job. I had no interest. I joined the military for the same reason as most people my age. I wanted to blow things up. I wanted to fire machine guns. That did not sound like a machine gun type job. As I perused the MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) book, I happened across one that read, Fire Support Specialist. No, not a fireman. I’ll spare you the boring details and just tell you it was a field artillery job. I would get to blow things up.
Again, like most boys my age, when I joined the Army I left behind a girlfriend who, at the time, was my entire world. Unfortunately she had grown bored with me. She and everyone else had expected me to leave six months earlier. Apparently my extended stay did not mesh well with her plans. To her credit, she waited as long as she could but the urge to fuck anything with a dick overpowered her. I heard later that she ran across a pizza delivery guy that she thought was cute. She called and ordered a pizza for delivery. The guy showed up and she fucked him. Right there in her Dad’s living room. I delivered pizza for a year and I never got more than a four dollar tip. I don’t blame her though. She was young and she was staring down the barrel at unlimited freedom. It was too tempting for her. Most of my friends had tired of me being around still as well. They were lined up, chomping at the bit for their chance to get in my girlfriend’s pants. Their resentment for me was palpable.
The recruiter came to collect me at 4 am on a Tuesday. I left alone. I had said goodbye to my family the night before. I had no friends there to wish me well. No girlfriend to pry myself away from. I considered myself lucky. I was able to start my military service with a clean slate. I had no emotional ties. The recruiter didn’t make much conversation. He had done this many times before and he knew that idle chit chat was a wasted effort. My mind was elsewhere. I thought of war. Granted, I joined in peace time. Desert Storm had been over for 3 years and the Iraqi and Afghani wars were still a ways off but the chance of war was the driving force for joining in the first place. I wanted to serve my country proudly, honorably. I wanted to form the bonds of brotherhood. Most importantly, I wanted to know what it was like to kill someone. I don’t mean that I had thoughts of murder. The potential for taking a life becomes elevated when you join the military. It’s a plain fact. I wondered if I had what it took to be able to do that, to be able to end a life and then continue on with my own. My expectations of the Army were based largely on films I had seen and stories from Vietnam and WW II veterans I had listened to. I don’t want to say that I was lied to. Army life was definitely not what I expected. That’s for damn sure. Having been back in civilian life for around ten years now, I find that I remember things much more fondly then I thought of them while they were happening.
I remember watching a documentary about basic training. I watched as a Drill Sergeant stepped onto the bus and all of the new recruits looked on in awe and fear. The Drill Sergeant spoke to them in the most commanding voice I had ever heard. His directions were concise and by the looks of him, you wouldn’t ask for clarification even if you needed it. He started calm, welcoming them and wishing them luck. Then, as suddenly as flipping a switch, he exploded into a continuous tirade of barks and growls. The recruits all rose from their seats in unison and followed the unintelligible orders like Pavlov’s dog. I doubted they knew what he was saying. They just seemed to mindlessly move. I was reminded of a snake charmer, the Drill Sergeant’s voice being the horn and this long line of recruits, the snake. I watched this video and the organized chaos it displayed and I felt fear. I felt that same fear as I sat in the 7th row of a charter bus as it pulled into the reception center at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. To my left there was a sign that read...

“Soldiering Starts Here”.

Blood, Stout and Tears Part II

2011-02-28T13:41:00.000-08:00

Maryland in the winter is fucking cold. There’s no other way to describe it. That winter we were hit with two back to back blizzards. The cruel amount of snow mixed with the cold air coming off the Chesapeake Bay made it nearly unbearable for me. While I had been born and raised in New York, I had been living in Texas for the better part of 10 years. I had been transferred from Dallas to Maryland earlier that winter to aid one of our satellite offices and found myself as a permanent resident about two months later. It was around March now. I kept thinking that if I was back in Texas I’d be wearing shorts. Instead I was under two comforters nuzzled up to some chick I had met roughly a week before and whose name I cannot remember. She was my first and only attempt at “online dating”. She turned out to be a complete nut case but for that evening, she was warm and my apartment was cold. It felt good to have a warm naked body next to mine. At the time I didn’t really care whose it was.
I remember it was around 4:45 in the morning and I was lying there in the dark, listening to the Woman next to me breath. I thought about getting up to adjust the thermostat but it would do no good. My apartment was under an overpass in Gaithersburg, just outside of DC. The neighborhood wasn’t great but I had no problems there. The first time I saw the building I almost left without even waiting to see the apartment itself. Not wanting to consider the trip a total waste, I decide to stay. The outside was plain brick. Nothing about it stood out and nothing about it made me want to live there. The owner led me up to the second floor and down a dim hallway to a corner apartment. The hallway had linoleum tile that looked to have been put there some time in the seventies. One of the lights that actually worked buzzed and flickered. It reminded me of a horror movie. The owner fumbled with his keys and unlocked two deadbolts. Multiple front door locks is never a good sign. He finally got the door open and to my complete surprise, the apartment was amazing. There were high ceilings, wood floors, new fixtures and appliances. It made me think of a Manhattan loft. I fell in love with it immediately. The best part was getting it at a steal. The location and the fact that a major roadway had been constructed just outside my window put it right within the limit of my budget. At 4:45 in the morning, the size of the place and the wood floors were not helping with the cold. Instead I decided to just lay there and not risk waking the person next to me. I devoted my time to thinking of an excuse to get her to leave. It was a Sunday but she knew I worked nearly every day. I could go that route.
Being a tall person I have always had the problem of cold fingers and toes. That morning I used it to my advantage. I slid my left leg towards hers, brushing her calf with my toes. She stirred but didn’t wake up. I decided to go a little further and placed the bottom of my foot flat against her bare skin. That did the trick. As soon as she awoke I moved my foot away. I gave her some half assed excuse about having to go on a work call and needing her to go. I don’t know if she believed me or not but she left regardless. I saw her out and locked the dead bolts behind her. I stood there, blanket wrapped around my body and for a fraction of a second, I missed her. Well, I didn’t miss HER. I missed the company. I shuffled back to bed, checking the thermostat on the way. The heat was set to 72 degrees. The thermostat read 60 degrees. Pushing back the thought of my next electric bill, I cranked it up and extra five degrees. I lay back down on the side of the bed where I had been previously. I wanted to move to the middle; hopefully she had left some warmth behind. Instead she had left a residual scent of her perfume. I didn’t care for it much earlier the previous evening and I really didn’t care for it now. I was going to have to wash my sheets. Since my apartment had no connections I would have to take them to the Laundromat. The snow and the cold made even the most menial tasks seem insurmountable.
At exactly 5 am, my phone rang. At the time I had no land line, only two cell phones. One was for personal use and the other was for work. The reason I remember the time was because it was my personal phone that was ringing. My work phone was prone to ring around the clock. It was one of the draw backs of the line of work I was in at the time. I thought maybe it was the girl who had just left. Maybe she left something here or her car wouldn’t start. Then I remembered I hadn’t given her my personal number. She had my work number so I could screen her calls. I know that sounds bad but trust me. If you knew her you’d understand. I grabbed the phone and looked at the caller ID. It was my ex girlfriend. We had broken up a few weeks after I had been transferred to Maryland. She called me from time to time, usually to give me shit and almost always when she was drunk. I answered and immediately went on the offense. Right away I noticed a different tone in her voice. It was something I wasn’t used to hearing from her. There was compassion there or maybe it was pity. As I lashed out at her for calling me at 5 am on a Sunday, my only day to sleep in, rather than fight back, she just repeatedly told me to calm down. “Do you have any cigarettes?” she asked. “Light one and sit down”. My anger began to turn to curiosity, tinged with apprehension. “What is going on?” I demanded.
“Dan… Josh died.”
“What?”
“Josh is dead. I’m so sorry”
I dropped the phone and ran to the bathroom to throw up.

Blood, Stout and Tears Part I

2010-03-01T11:13:00.000-08:00

I will always remember my first real fist fight. I had been in a few before but they generally resulted in chaotic arm swinging and crying up to that point. This one was over a girl, as most of them are in life. Not in the traditional sense though. It wasn't over a love scorned. Hell, what the fight was about isn't even important now. I remember we squared off, I was in a state of sheer of panic. There was no way out other than to cut and run. I wouldn't have made it far anyway. My opponent had me by about six inches and would have caught me in five steps. No, it was show time. We stood there, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Then I noticed something. I looked in his eyes and I saw it. Fear. He was just as scared as I was. This realization must have caused a change in my face because he saw it, I'm guessing and took that as his cue to pounce. He took a long, slow haymaker swing at my head which I side stepped. This action threw off his balance which he corrected by continuing his forward momentum and bear hugging me around the waist, pulling me to the ground with him. When we landed he was on top of me and my left ear smacked hard on the edge of the curb. I went blank for a second or two. Luckily for me, he took that opportunity to NOT beat me to a pulp but rather, regain his composure and square off again. Waiting for me to recover. Slowly I got up, I could feel the tears beginning to well up behind my eyes. I felt my throat start to close as I choked back the tears for fear of being further ridiculed by my friends who looked on in fevered anticipation. They didn't care who won.
After a quick review I saw that I still had no means of escape and we were far from done. He swung again. This time he prepared himself. He remembered his mistake and would not repeat it. There was no wild haymaker. This one was delivered in the form of a straight jab which connected with the center of my face. As I watched his fist cut the air and scream toward my nose, I braced for what was at that time one of my biggest childhood fears. Then, it happened. POW! I was dazed for a split second. My head was reeling. I just got punched square in the face. I don't know how many of you out there have been punched square in the face before. If you haven't, let me tell you, it is unpleasant. I noticed something though. The pain, while intense, was manageable. I realized, I was okay. I looked at my opponent, who was poised and ready to deliver again. He had a look of confidence that I wanted. Not just then but in all aspects of my life. I was envious. My fear turned to jealous anger. Again there must have been a marked change in my look and again, he noticed because his looked changed as well. The fear returned to his eyes.
My hand balled up, I stepped in and swung for his head, hard. Now it was my turn. I remembered what my father taught me. Low center of gravity, keep your balance, don't overextend your reach. All of these things came together beautifully as my fist connected, with my entire one hundred and twenty pounds behind it, just below his left eye. He made a noise that sounded almost like a goose honking. I remember that part because I thought it odd that a person would make that sound. I knew it was a reactionary sound. I know he didn't choose to make it. It's just funny to me that it would be that sound. He dropped like all the bones in his body were removed in a split second. He sort of just collapsed on himself. One of the other, in a list of many, lessons my Father taught me was to never give up the upper hand. "Don't ever start a fight but if you find yourself in one, make sure the other guy never wants to try it again". I kept this in mind and was on top of him before he even hit the ground. I swung repeatedly, connecting with every punch. I swung until my fist met with the top of his skull and nearly broke my arm.
I got up to cradle my now injured right hand. No one was cheering anymore. That boy was a mess. I realized I had momentarily taken my attention off of my opponent. I immediately got back on the clock and readied for any possible retaliation. There was none. He just sat there. On his ass, legs out in front of him, arms at his side, shoulders slumped and chin on his chest. I thought for a second that I might have killed him. A thought of being the youngest inmate in Sing Sing prison flashed through my head. Then I saw him move. It was apparent that he had resolved himself to defeat. He made no more attempts to defend himself and certainly not to attack. I saw this and I did something that caused me to lose all of the accolades I should have received after putting on a show of that magnitude. I helped him up.
"Are we done?" I asked, my voice shaky.
"yeah, we're done", he replied with an equally shaky voice.
I helped him back on to the bus and he left. He must have gotten his route changed because I never saw him again.
My life perception changed that day. Not because of the victory. That was luck. My opponent, in the long run, was weaker that I was. No, it was because I learned I could take a punch to the face and still come out ahead.

I'll take my sandwich dry, thank you.

2009-09-24T12:37:00.000-07:00

It was Labor Day weekend, the summer between 9th and 10th grade, if my memory serves me. Ricky's parents took us up to their house at Lake George. I remember we had a blast up there. Taking his Dad's racing boat out on the lake. Me trying light some bikini clad blonde's cigarette with a flare gun for a lack of matches. We played tag with pellet guns. There was one part of the trip that sticks with me to this day. Our sleeping quarters was a bunkbed in a basement section that his Dad converted to a bedroom. The last night we were there, I took the bottom bunk and Ricky took the top. First I'll tell this from my perspective...

As I was laying there trying to fall asleep, I felt the bunkbed start to move slightly. Then not so slightly. As this went on for a few seconds, I started to hear Ricky grunt and breath heavy. My confusion turned to horror as it dawned on me what was going on. What do I do? Should I make some kind of noise to let him know I was still awake?! Do I just do nothing? A the movement and noise became more frantic, there was a loud moan and then suddenly everything stopped. Once again I was left in the silent dark, trying to figure out how I was going to face him the next morning when all of a sudden, like a fucking juggernaut he flips down from the top bunk, screaming like a banshee and slaps me square in the face. As the shock wore off, I realized there was something on my face that wasn't there before. A gellatenous white goo. Then the smell of it hit me. That was when; 1. I began to gag uncontrollably and 2. Ricky let loose with his maniacal laugh which I heard so often during our friendship. Aaaaaand FREEZE!

Now the story from Ricky's perspective...

To give you the set up here, the bunk bed was against a wall and at the top of that wall, right next to the top bunk, was a small window that opened to the laundry area, which led to the stairs and up to the kitchen. After 20 minutes or so of going lights out, Ricky silently opened the small window, rolled through, snuck to the kitchen and grabbed himself a rather large handfull of mayonnaise. At this point he snuck back down, through the window again and proceeded with the theatrics. He had apparently been planning this hoax for days. I still to this day will not eat mayonnaise.

Earlier this year Ricky White, Dobbs Ferry Police Officer, volunteer firefighter and my friend took his own life without explanation. He was a good cop, a good friend and a royal pain in my ass. The smell of mayonnaise used to make me sick...now it just makes me sad.

Better than a Happy Meal Toy.

2009-09-03T10:55:00.000-07:00

It's amazing how much things have changed just in the time since I was a child. I mean, I'm not that old of a guy. We're talking maybe a 20 year difference. If I acted up, hell hath no fury like my Mom with a wooden spoon. If it wasn't nailed down, I was hit with it. I don't blame my Mom. She was young, single and was doing the best she could. She was a strict disciplinarian though. I'll give her that. Nowadays, she would probably be in Guantanamo Bay for the whoopings she dealt out. I'm not saying it was that bad, I'm saying our society has become that pussifued. Yes, pussified. Kids have Child Protective Services on speed dial on their cell phone...that their parents pay for. Try to take the Playstation away? You better get a lawyer. Forget threatening them with the famous "trip to the bathroom" when the cut loose in the grocery store. We are rendered powerless to our children thanks to an ever growing bleeding heart, hugs and kisses, every kid gets a trophy, society. I have a simple and effective plan for parents of young children, to instill in them the fear and respect that my parents had earned from me through years of spankings. Your child must be below the age of 12 but over the age of 8 for this to work effectively. You should only need to do this once, if it's done correctly. First thing, buy them a gift. Something they have really been pining after. A toy, video game, whatever. Give it to them and make a big deal over it. Tell them they've earned it due to good grades, behavior, it doesn't matter. When their smile is at its peak, give em a good solid smack. Not too hard but hard enough for them to remember. Now this is the important part. As they are standing there, confused from just having received a gift, praise AND a slap within seconds of each other, you must say this...

"That was just to let you know that I can and will do that at any time, for any reason."

Chances are, from that point on, a quick glare in their direction will cure just about any fit they may be throwing. As they get into teenage years they may forget the lesson so I recommend screaming nonsense at them, at random and really inappropriate times. Should be smooth sailing from there!

You're welcome.

Snack Time!

2009-09-02T13:40:00.000-07:00

I just bought some Kosher Dill flavored chips from the machine. They don't taste like kosher dill at all. They taste like straight vinegar... and ass. They should call these Paas Easter Egg Coloring and Raw Sewage flavored.

Inglorious P.O.S.

2009-09-02T11:08:00.000-07:00

Letting Tarrantino Write, direct and produce his own movies is like letting a kid with down syndrome fuel, repair and fly a plane. Yeah, it keeps him happy but couldn't we just take him to Chuck E. Cheese instead?

Rules To Simplify Your Life - Part I

2009-09-02T09:52:00.000-07:00

1. Quit your crying. No matter how bad things are in your life, someone, somewhere out there has it worse than you do. Someone ELSE has it even worse than they do! Even in the worst case scenario, you're not dead. As long as you're alive there is still a chance to make things better for yourself. If you ARE dead...well, then you lose. "But Dano, I suffer from depression". Depression? It's called being an adult. It sucks. We have to get up early and force ourselves out of bed to go to a job we more than likely hate. Sit there for 9 plus hours, at least 5 days a week just so we can have a little money left over after bills to put towards buying something that will make us happy. This thing is usually electronic and by the time you've saved the money to afford it, a newer, better and more expensive model had come out. Oh and while I'm thinking about it, this acronym I keep hearing "FML". If you use this, I am going to smack you. Hard. Not because I don't agree that your life may be worth F-ing but because "fuck my life" should not follow a sentence like, couldn't find my keys, got stuck in traffic, was late to work and forgot my lunch. FML. Here are some sentences where FML at the end is applicable...

a. Found the murder weapon. Was convicted and sentenced to death by lethal injection. FML.
b. I contracted a fatal disease from living a consequence free lifestyle. FML.
c. I ran a red light after drinking for hours on end and was hit by a dump truck and am now dead. FML.

And so on. If you want to "FYL" because you spilled Welch's on your new Zoo York polo...Well, come see me. I'll do it for you.

2. Get off your ass. I have no issues with lending an ear now and then to someone who just needs to get something off their chest. What I will not stand for is when I am hearing the same issues from the same people over and over again. Advice is offered, options are given and no changes are made. That tells one of me two things; either you're a coward or you enjoy complaining. Both bother the shit out of me. I learned a great acronym when Iw as in the Army, "K.I.S.S.". Stands for Keep It Simple, Stupid. List your issues in order from least bothersome to life altering. Start at the bottom of the list and get to changing the things you can. Since these are the lesser issues they should be easy. Two things are going to happen. First, you'll feel better about knocking some issues out. Second, you'll gain momentum. Really, I don't care what you do but do SOMETHING or shut the fuck up because How It's Made is starting.

It Is Done

2009-09-02T08:31:00.000-07:00

So, here it is. My blog. I have joined the rest of the 21st century and made it possible for everyone with access to the internet to see what I have to say. Prepare to be disappointed. I don't use spell check, I cuss like a sailor and I may or may not post here often. If I do, it may or may not have any relevance what so ever. Read it or don't. I don't give a shit. I'm not paying for this.