Third Generation Bad Ass

It started with my Grandma Mary. Even at the time I was young I was somewhat aware of her medical struggles. Of course as a child they're all just words and even something like "cancer" doesn't register until many years down the line. For me it was just easy to see by what she ate.
Grandma had her own separate meals from the rest of us. Low in sodium, low in sugar, low in this, low in that. I'm sure just as any child would do I noticed my grandmother's one of a kind meals and wondered why she got something special. Then my mom must have inevitably told me of my grandmother's heart conditions and that her food probably tasted like cardboard, though she would never complain about it.
Which is the point, she never complained or whined and definitely didn't say "FML". She just carried on doing what she needed to do, through breast cancer, heart attacks and anything and everything that was thrown her way. Even on her deathbed she didn't complain, she just smiled and waved goodbye to my grandfather. It's taken me years to come to grips with her passing too early, and maybe I'm still not there yet, but I have come to realize that in the final moments there can be nothing more badass than being able to smile and wave one last time to the person you love.

My mother inherited some of that spirit, though she's never fully been able to realize it for herself. She helped take care of my grandmother on the rare occasions when grandma asked for help (she hated to be a bother to anyone), and since then has done her best to hold the family together, including taking care of my grandfather. From cooking countless holiday meals, to making sure Gramps is warm in the winter or has someone to talk to when he feels alone she's taken a mental and physical beating to get it all done. And it always has been. All of that would be enough to make her a hero but it pales in comparison to what she went through during my parents divorce.
They're both my parents so I'm not going to pick sides - without either of them I don't exist. But it was my mom who went back to school, got her masters, got a job teaching to support us, survived the loss of her mother, the loss of our home, a fire that destroyed our new home, scrapped together enough money to see that my sister and I always had food, shelter and a little extra to spend on the frivolous trinkets of youth so that we never appeared lacking compared to our friends. We both went to college. We both graduated, with honors and we both shed a tear every time our mom second guesses anything she did in raising us. Maybe one day she'll stop and revel in her accomplishments - the two biggest, my sister and I.

All of that brings us to the new generation. The kids who have endured a fairly tumultuous divorce, watched their house burn down during those awkward high school years, and for me, getting diagnosed with a chronic condition at age 17. Since then I've had to deal with biopsies, blood transfusions, vomiting that would make a prom queen proud, drinking more liquid barium than any human should have to endure, constant blood tests, IV treatments, being doubled over in pain for days at a time, and being so sick that your body doesn't want to eat for a week despite the fact that you're withering away to nothing in front of your own eyes. And now they tell me that it's time for surgery they want to cut out 10 inches of my insides. Maybe I should be more concerned than I am, maybe I should get scared or something. Maybe, but I won't. When the doctor told me this prognosis I took a breath and said "okay". Life throws challenges at you. Easy if you can't handle it, tough if you can. So what else was I expecting?
I am the next step in Darwin's evolution. Grandma's silent strength, with Mom's persistence. But I acknowledge it. I revel in it. I stand out and wait for the next challenge. They get progressively harder but I don't care. As weak as my body has been at 104lbs my mind is a 255lb middle linebacker out for blood (i.e. Ray Lewis) or the FTW World Champion, Taz.

I don't do things the easy way. I don't back down. I don't run from a challenge and I sure as hell don't half ass it. I just do it. Whatever it is that's thrown in my way. I do it. I endure.

My name is Bob Tallman, and I'm a 3rd generation bad-ass.
Beat me, if you can.
Survive, if I let you.

Country Roads: Part 0

You could probably call this a prequel to my cross country adventure. I was planning on leaving today. I even scheduled 3 hours for packing on my Google Calendar.

However, it apparently takes something more like 6 hours and when you've got an 80 degree plus heat beating down on your pasty white ass, it takes even longer. So after much back and forth, constant rests and drinking a ton of water, I decided that it just wasn't worth it to kill myself and will leave tomorrow (Sunday, June 13th).

What's more though is that with all of the crap I crammed into the car, there's still so much I have to leave behind. Tomorrow I"m putting out a "Box o' Free Stuff" outside the apartment before I go. Things in it include: Guitar Hero controller (Gamespot wouldn't buy it), my 1969 Mets framed celebration print, my NY Giants rug - those last 2 I really wanted to take but I can't feasibly fit them anywhere, my Mike Piazza bobblehead, various Google schwag and my ultra comfortable bathrobe (I may be able to salvage that one).

But yeah, anyway it sucks to give up all of these things that I remember what occasion I got them for, from who and what they meant/mean to me. That's because I'm crazy and develop an instance emotional attachment to inanimate objects.

So anyway that's my story for today - not even going to get into the clusterfuck of subletting my room - going to bed now so I can wake up early and get breakfast (hopefully I'll be feeling better and able to eat) then throw some food and drink in the cooler and pack my laptop, maps and be on my way. I'm hoping to be on the road before 10:30am

First stop: Yosemite National Park

That reminds me, I should get directions.

Maybe I'm not so okay with this

Yesterday I called Mike to remind him that he's getting married in exactly a week. It wasn't really a congratulations call, just a reminder really.

Since then I've been dealing with something I can only make up a fake psychological name for, known as "Sidekick Syndrome". For all of our years together I've always sort of thought of myself as being just a smidge ahead, being the leader. Not that it really mattered but that's how I viewed it. Now I'm overcome realizing that I'm the Randall to Mike's Dante. I went back and watched Randall's speech to Dante while they are in jail at the end of Clerks II and I realized I feel a bit of the same way. I know that him getting married doesn't mean that we won't be friends anymore, but I'm smart enough to realize that it's going to change things... and I don't want that to happen.

It's been 20 years of me and Mike. Trying to list all of the shit that we've gone through together would be easier if St. Peter came down with the file of my life and we just pulled out the few pages that didn't involve Mike. Now things are on the verge of a monumental change. Even after I moved to California things didn't change that much. We saw each other less, but our number of pointless text messages probably skyrocketed. Whenever I came home for a visit he was still just five houses away. Now he's moving to Albany so when I'm home, he won't be, for the first time.

I'm slowly realizing that the friend I've pretty much been able to take for granted, won't be around like he used to be. I know it's selfish, but I'm a bit confused about how life is going to go when it's not me and Mike anymore.

The first time I watched Clerks II was the first time I thought of this song symbolizing me and Mike. I won't even bother trying to explain it because I'm fairly certain that I can't. I just remember watching the ending of the movie and thinking what Randall said was right. Anything and everything is better when you're with your best friend.

Grand Theft Auto: Port Chester

(Originally written June 2006)

Warning - This post is rated A for Adult. No persons under 21 authorized to read it without parental approval.

The night started off the same as pretty much all others - Everybody's Favorite DD rolls up to one of the hottest spots in town with a pair of beautiful girls in toe - except there was something off this time, a slight change in the usual pattern (and I'm not talking about the fact that I finally looked as good as the girls I walked in with) We arrived at the same time as a member of the Port Chester Police Department and I walked in with a cop at my back. There were no problems, no issues requiring police assistance at the time, his presence, simply foreshadowing. Had we known we would have asked him to stick around.

And so the night progressed without any thoughts of the Po-Po, or discussions on how municipal tax revenue should be spent to ensure a stronger police presence. After all, it was a birthday celebration and celebrate we must, and we did. I even indulged in my first beer since January, remarking after tasting the first bit of malted hops, "Once it hits your lips.... it's soo good". Clearly I had made the right decision in ordering a Samuel Adams (Samuel Jackson was not available) The beer was drank with all of the enthusiasm of a 17 year old, and it filled me with sadness when the bottle run empty. So I had another round... because no one should be sad at a birthday party.

As the night progressed the party thinned out, as would be expected. Eventually I was left solely in the company of quite possibly the two singularly most attractive women in a 20 mile radius. 1 with light brown hair, 1 darker brown, 1 with short hair, 1 with long; well you get the point, if you are a guy you wish you were me at this point. (But you're not so nah )

So we made our exit amidst the light rain which had begun to fall during our festivities. When we reached our intended destination, a covered parking garage where the black chariot awaited to transport us home we came upon a grocery store shopping cart. Now it being late/early depending on your preferred way of looking at the clock an abandoned shopping cart is like a veritable gold mine to a drunk person, much the same that an oversized cardboard box can provide endless hours of amusement to a small child.

We stopped and played around, taking silly pictures, pushing the shopping cart, harmless activities that would amuse those who are slightly intoxicated. It should be mentioned that the writer of this story was at no point during the night inebriated or above the legal limit for alcohol consumption by a midget and therefore can verify that all of events hence forth are indeed true regardless of their almost outlandish-ness.

It was after a good deal of innocent goofing off (about 20 minutes or so worth) that we encountered the two yutes.

Uh, Mr. Gambini - did you say "yutes" (My Cousin Vinny)

Sorry, the two YOUTHS who were no more than 15 years in age, entered the parking garage. Now parking garages are no place for 15 year olds to be hanging out, let alone after 2 in the morning but then again it's no place of mine to approach them and ask just what in the hell they're doing up so late. Anyway, the two seperate parties (us and them) remained happily segregated with no interaction save for the ability to overhear each other's conversations. Obviously they got the better end of the deal getting to listen in a 3-way discussion with 2 drunk girls while I had to settle for some pre-pubescent angst about how some guy was going to shoot them. Yeah, whatever kids get lost, can't you see I've got 2 hotties here with me on the curb? Shoo, shoo!

Unfortunately they seemed very comfortable in their surroundings and showed no signs of leaving and by now it was getting late (er) and so we decided that perhaps we should complete our 20 foot odyssey to the car. We opened the doors and got in, strapped in and began to turn the key when we heard something - something like a pop or a bang. The natural reaction, look in the direction of the sound.

Ok, located it. On the far side of the parking garage (about 250 feet in front on about a 45 degree angle from my driver's seat) I saw a man walking in to the parking garage. Well that doesn't make sense, I heard a sound like a pop and there's this man just standing there, walking, and carrying something.

Pop

A small star shaped burst of light from where the man's outstretched arm was.

Me thinking: Wait a second... is that what I ....(this thought was never actually finished because my brain quickly replaced it with the following) GET THE F' OUT OF THERE!!

"Put the keys to ignition

Step on the gas and be shiftin

Get the f*ck out of there,

or your ass will be wishin

Peeling out towards Route 1,

I'm so glad I'm not drunk

it's the freakin weekend baby

this ain't what I would call fun"

The first red light presented a conundrum - do I run it and risk having a cop pull me over, where I can explain to him what just happened, or do I abide by the rules and risk the situation that the guy with the gun (or any of the no less than 3 others we saw in the area at the time of the shooting) followed the only "witnesses". So i stopped at the red light and checked the rear view for the first time since we left the parking garage. 1 car coming up behind us, moving over to the left side Light changes green, no guns pulled, floor it - I'm not taking any chances

Make it to the Taconic parkway, ok i suppose that means we're safe. Unfortunately the whole ordeal definitely affected my driving, I had a temporary case of what I believe psychologist call a "Tupac Complex" where a driver fears other cars pulling up along side of them. At present the condition seems to have disappeared.

While driving the three of us made sure to cover all of the bases: 1) We reported "shots fired" to the local authorities, 2) we called or text messaged everyone in our phone books (sometimes twice) to let them know what happened and that we were alright 3) re-told the story to ourselves as if we hadn't just been there, at least half a dozen times 4) acknowledged that we all now have legitimate street cred as a result of this situation 5) created a series of 3-4 events that could be used against us in a game of "Never Have I Ever" including, but not limited to: "Never Have I Ever Been Shot at"6) added the additional title of "Everyone's Favorite Getaway Driver" to my list of titles/accomplishments and finally 7) decided that this type of traumatic event called for the dinner.

Once at the dinner we began to calm down and regain our composure, joking about the incident in a way that superficially covered the sheer uncomfortableness of the fact that we three now have a "hey, remember the time we were shot at?" story to tell. From there began the painstaking process of trying to explain to our waiter that yes, although it was around 4 in the morning at the diner our stories were much more legitimate than those drunken tales he had heard before.

"No really, I'm not kidding you. We were shot at!"

"You want the eggs scrambled?"

"Yes"

And from there the rest of the night played out the way you would expect. Everyone's Favorite DD/Getaway Driver successfully returned the hotties to their homes, sans gun shot wounds, and returned to his home,

Well, we all have our stories. (Swingers)

Current Music: "Crossfire" Stevie Ray Vaughn - not really