Author: Mr Benchly

I'm quirky. And a writer. Sometimes in that order.

Here kitty kitty kitty

Contrary to popular* belief that can be partly blamed on a nasty rumor that originated somewhere in the Sahari Desert, I have not, as of yet, fathered any children. Yes, that’s right, folks, thanks to the concerted effort of myself and numerous (though not THAT numerous) women, I’m 27 and without children. Please please, hold your applause until the end.

Although, ironically, in order to achieve such a lack of responsibility in the present, I had to be extremely responsible in my past, it’s safe to say that I’ve never considered myself to be a responsible person. And so, it is with an extremely nervous tone that I declare to the world that in two days I will be the proud and skittish pseudo-owner of a beautiful and skittish black cat named Othello. I say “pseudo” because the permanent custody of Othello is yet to be determined.

You see, my friend, who for obvious geographic reasons pertaining to her childhood shall henceforth be called Montana Girl, has discovered that she does not have the time and energy necessary to give Othello the love and attention any pet needs. Yes, she’s THAT busy. And then, one day, when she determined that Othello was the equivalent of my kitty soul mate, it was decided that I would ultimately assume responsibility and ownership of said kitty. But first…

I have a roommate and I can’t believe I haven’t yet mentioned her. For obvious religious reasons, I’m going to call her The Virgin Mary. Well, you see, The Virgin Mary, when moving into our apartment, brought with her two very adorable and eccentric kitties named Sherbert and Shu-Shu, who, for the remainder of this blog will be referred to as Sherbert and Shu-Shu. Sherbert is old (as The Virgin Mary says, “age undetermined”) and has one fake eye; Shu-Shu is a SCAREDY CAT with a capital S and CAREDY CAT. They’ve all settled into the apartment nicely but a new cat could completely negatively disrupt their lives. And so, Montana Girl, The Virgin Mary, and I decided to have a Trial Run. We’d take Othello for about a week or so to see how he adjusts and to see how the other two kitties adjust and if everything works out, he’s mine. If things don’t work out, he’s the Humane Society’s. No pressure, right?

And so, two days from now is Day 1 of said Trial Run. And in 9 days, if all goes well, I’ll be a daddy. And I’m nervous. Really nervous. I’ve never cared for anything by myself. I’ve only ever cared for a living, breathing thing for a few hours at a time (in the case of my nieces), a few days at a time (in the case of my roommate’s kitties), or with the assistance of my family (in the case of my childhood dog). Never with the buck stopping at me. Cousin J’s recent fish trauma only intensified my fears. What if something goes terribly wrong? What if Sherbert eats Othello? What if Shu-Shu goes insane? Now I’m the scaredy cat.

*In this instance, “popular” is used loosely if only because it’s untrue.

This Funk I’m In

I go through these phases. These anti-social, anti-people, anti-doing, anti-anti, anti-everything phases. Mama Benchly would call it depression. Of course, she thinks the world is depressed. I’ve stopped going to her to talk about things like this because it only ever ends up with her diagnosing me as utterly hopeless and in need of some serious medication. Instead, I fight through the phases by myself. I don’t call it depression. I call it Being Benchly (BB).

Some but not all symptoms of BB:

1. I become irritable at everything, big or small. Take, for instance, my posting a week ago about the Great Snoring Banishment of 2004. In the grand scheme of things, not a big deal at all. During BB though, it’s HUGE. I pick fights with people whether they deserve it or not.

2. To avoid picking fights with friends, I withdraw from any interaction with them. I don’t answer the phone as often as I normally do. And I hardly ever return phone calls. I turn down offers to hang out citing excuses as truthful as “I’m not feeling well” and excuses as unbelievable as “Sorry, I might be going to Alabama this weekend.”

3. To justify staying home and not seeing friends, I tell myself I’m going to accomplish those tasks that always seem one rainy day away from being finished. For example:

a). The 2004 Purging of Unwanted Benchly’s Stuff (PUBS);

b). The Photo Album Project of 2003 (PAP);

c). The Great Reorganization Of Benchly’s Style (GROBS) in which I donate old clothes to Salvation Army and purchase new clothes on clearance racks.

3.1. I never accomplish these tasks and instead, watch movies or TV. Occasionally, I read. But typically, reading annoys me during BB, too.

4. Rather than save money by grocery shopping and preparing my own meals, I either eat out, or eat crap.

Now you can see why Mama Benchly calls it depression. And you know what, it probably is. Hell, it runs in the family anyway. But I refuse to believe that this problem and these phases I go through are only beatable through medication or counseling. Why can’t I do my thing for a few days, be aware of the funk I’m in, consciously force myself to beat the funk, move on, and repeat as necessary? I have to believe that this is possible because if it isn’t, then I have to deal with the fact that I’m not a complete person on my own. And I’m not ready to deal with that.

So if I haven’t responded to your emails yet, or if I haven’t returned your phone calls yet, or if I picked a fight about something stupid, or if I don’t feel like hanging out right now, please take note of the aforementioned and wait a day or two. I’ll be around soon.

Jeff Goldblum Syndrome

My favorite song lyric from the last year comes from Iron and Wine’s song Bird Stealing Bread:

“Do his hands in your hair feel a lot like a thing you believe inor a bit like a bird stealing bread out from under your nose?”

This has nothing to do with anything other than it’s the song playing right now as I type this.

So I’ve returned from the wood. I spent the last 48 hours at my friend CAT’s parents’ summer home in VERY VERY VERY rural Vermont. The house was incredible and so too was the company with whom I spent this weekend. The majority of my temporary housemates were related to each other and this became evident almost immediately as you heard the many years they’ve spent together echoing in their smiles and laughter. But I never felt like an outsider…except, of course, when it involved their family’s complete dominance at card games.

I had plenty of time to play fetch with the dogs and all of them knew the remarkable command “GAME OVER.” If they were begging you to throw the ball and you were tired or it was obvious that they were tired and needed to rest, all you had to say was “GAME OVER” and they’d take the ball from your hand, walk away, and lie down somewhere. That’s a command I needed for myself when I was growing up. =)

I also had plenty of time to read from the book I’ve been reading the last week or two: The Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by David Eggers (I think I got the title correct). Great story and great writing and I often hear my thoughts and feelings in his words. And this is both comforting and frustrating. Comforting to know that I’m not alone in my thoughts and frustrating because now what the hell am I supposed to write about?!?!

The food I ate this weekend was delicious with a capital FREAKIN! I ate so much that I’ll be digesting all winter. And we got to sit in front of the fire place at night, which is always a treat. But then, the straw that broke my 27 year old camel’s back:

I snore. There, I said it. I snore like it’s nobody’s business. I snore like it’s my job and I love what I do for a living. I’m loud. VERY loud. And like ALL snorers, I can’t help this. And believe me, I want to help this. I want to wake up in the morning and be asked how I slept and answer “great” and have that be the end of the discussion. But instead, my life has been spent having the “how did you sleep?” “Great!” “Yeah, I know, I could HEAR you ALL night” conversation. And call me sarcastic, but after 100 times, this conversation and all similar conversations get old…

So, last night, not only did I have to deal with the snoring jokes but I also had the pleasure of being banished from the living room couch and fireplace and sent to a room in the corner on the second floor with the other snorer, as far away from all nonsnorers as humanly possible without going outside. And believe me, when I offered to sleep outside instead, the “oh no, you don’t have to do that” responses came with hesitation. Am I being narrow-minded? Is it wrong that I’m slightly put off by being forced to sleep away from the rest of the group and next to a snorer (who kept me up) so that everyone else doesn’t have to?

I think the real issue here is my self esteem. I hate the outsider feeling I get when people make fun of my snoring and I hate BEING an outsider by being forced to sleep somewhere because I snore. It reminds me of when I was in kindergarten and Dukes of Hazard was the cool show on TV and so when the cool kid in class brought in his Dukes of Hazard matchbox car, the next day all the kids (including myself) brought in cars. Only…I didn’t have the Dukes of Hazard car. I had an orange corvette. And so when I tried to play with all the other kids, they said “That’s not a Dukes of Hazard car! You can’t play with us!” Was it my fault I didn’t have a Dukes of Hazard car? No. And yet, there I was, forced to play by myself in a corner of the kindergarten classroom. You can imagine, as a 5 year old, how crushed I was when this happened. Well I felt the same way last night.

The Big Chill

So I have this friend. For the sake of privacy, I’m going to refer to her as Cat Allergy Teacher (CAT). She’s a teacher and…well…she’s allergic to cats. Anyway, CAT’s parents have a summer home in Vermont and she and her sister have decided to throw a Turning Off the Water Party (ie, one last party at the house before they turn the water off and close up shop for the winter). Well, CAT invited me and I invited Sarah the L and Sarah the L invited her girl Mr. Mikes.

And at the risk of sounding like the dork you know I am, I’m really looking forward to this weekend. Evidently, it’s a big place in the woods with 5 bedrooms and a fireplace and a ton of people are coming and so I can’t help but envision a Big-Chill-like-weekend:

Lots of imbibing (wine, Mike’s Hard Lemonade [a personal favorite of both myself and CAT], beer, etc); lots of long discussions about life and politics and all the things in this life that matter; lots of time to read and write; evenings spent playing games and laughing in front of a warm fire; smores; mornings spent going for walks and getting lost; lots of time to find yourself; and maybe even a little fricky. And I can’t help but think that I’m going to come away from this weekend a changed man. Hopefully for the better.

And so I’m really anxious to see how things play out. Of course, after all this build up, I’m sure I’ll be completely disappointed. I’ll be the Jeff Goldblum character. Blah. But whatever. At least I’m trying. So…to my loved ones and my lesser loved ones, have a beautiful weekend, and here’s hoping you “Kevin Kline” your wife’s best friend…=)

"Read books, fall in love, dream a lot." – Clayton E. Hudnall

In the second semester of my sophomore year at the University Whose Name Shall Never Be Said, I was lost. I had yet to declare a major, I had yet to take a college class I truly enjoyed, and I had yet to take the entire college process seriously. Then, on a whim partially influenced by Ms. Parker, I signed up for Gay and Lesbian Literature taught by Professor Clayton E. Hudnall. And instantly, I hated it.

By this point, I had taken 15 college classes and while passing them all, it’s safe to say I barely did any work. I coasted through my classes like a high school senior preparing for the beach. What I hated about Professor Hudnall’s class was that he didn’t accept my coasting. He graded my work for what it was: delicately teetering between average and below average. I resented that. He’d often say, “This is college, folks. You’re paying to be here. Act like it.” or something similar. And I tried like hell to ignore him. For awhile, I succeeded.

Then, over time, my stubbornness wore off and I opened myself up to the wonders of learning. You can chalk this up to a number of reasons: the incredibly eccentric and animated classmates with whom I shared the class (Sciaretta, Briggs, Theatre, Excessive Hand Motions Girl, Mr. Billings, Ms. Parker, Arizona Boy, the Uncle Lover, etc); Professor Hudnall’s passionate and lively debates/lectures that forced a student to contribute; and hell, I’ll admit it, the lesbian fiction. For the first time in college, I anxiously awaited each new class (except on those days when I had neglected to read the assignment and feared the Wrath of Hudnall). And with my new dedication to work and learning, a funny thing happened: my grades got better. Of course, because I slacked off for so long in the beginning, I couldn’t achieve the highest marks for the semester, but I did break par and it was the first grade in college I truly deserved.

When my sophomore year ended, I declared my English major and I immediately signed up for a fall semester class taught by Professor Hudnall (American Poetry). When my junior year arrived, I poured my heart into his class each and every week (well, maybe not the Walt Whitman week) and I was rewarded with yet another inspirational performance by Professor Hudnall. His passion for poetry was infectious. And while I’m the first to admit these poems could have stood on their own without our professor there to support them, I’ll never underestimate the importance of his guidance and lessons.

Professor Hudnall’s classrooms were his stage and with the spotlight glued to his every move, his classroom audience was always on the edge of its collective seat. We listened. And though he would have cringed to hear me say so, in some ways, his words were more important to us than the words of those he quoted. Through his actions, and through his stories, and through his enthusiasm, you knew his words were words worth remembering. He had lived a life worth noting and each glimpse into his world and his life and his thoughts gave you that much more of a chance to be a better person.

I am who I am today because of the paths I have crossed and one of those paths was Professor Hudnall’s. He taught me how to be a college student; to take responsibility for myself and my actions. He showed me the power of the written and spoken word. And he gave me a newfound appreciation for life and all of its beauty. His final lesson to my class was: “Read books, fall in love, dream a lot.” These are words to live by and by them he lived.

Professor Clayton E. Hudnall of East Windsor, Connecticut, passed away on August 25, 2004. He was an Associate Professor of English from 1970 to 2000. And for his priceless contribution to my life, I am forever grateful.

Beeps and Jeeps and General Creeps

This past June, on a semi-hot, terribly muggy, infamously miserable Thursday, I climbed into the driver’s seat of my beloved vehicle of 4 years, Inga Beep the Jeep, and proceeded to drive her to an early grave. For the metaphorically challenged out there, that’s my way of saying I overheated her to the point where smoke came out of her, fluids sprayed all over her, and she stunk up the whole neighborhood. The friendly mechanic and his trusty sidekick were able to bring her back to life but you could tell right away: she wasn’t the same. Part of her died that day. Maybe it was my betrayal of her trust. Maybe it was her Jeepish pride. We’ll never know. Regardless…

To prolong her now painful life, I decided to take advantage of Vermont’s public transportation system and ride the Loser Cruiser bus as much as possible. Burlington to Barre and back for $6. Considering the round trip covers 100 miles total, that’s a hell of a deal.

Riding the bus most mornings has introduced me (and fellow passenger Sarah the L) to an incredibly eclectic universe of environmentally-aware, politically-conscientious, and down-on-their-luck individuals. There are the regulars:

– Al Bundy (picture the Married With Children patriarch, and you’re picturing this passenger).
– Cute Rainbow Belt Lesbian Biker Girl (self explanatory)
– Road Rage Man (the guy who went postal on me on Interstate 89)
– Helen (If only because she reminds me of the grandmotherly woman who taught one of my college courses [she’s the one with the mic])

– Mustache Man (again, self explanatory)
– Duck Girl (Sarah the L will have to elaborate on this one because I wasn’t there when the “Duck Conversation” happened)
– Make Out Woman (so named because she was seen making out with her [presumably new] boyfriend while waiting for the bus to arrive

And the not so regulars:
– Cute Washington Plates Girl (cause she drives a car with Washington plates)
– Fun Curly Haired Teacher Guy (often seen grading the homework of his elementary school students. Recent assignment, I kid you not: What I Did on My Summer Vacation)

I can only imagine what the regulars call Sarah the L and I. “Gay Girl and Gay Boy”? “Rockstar and her Handsome Friend”?

Anyway, today, on the ride into work, Al Bundy was his usual self and what we polite folk politely call “ANNOYING AS ALL HELL!!!” He talks to you when you’re trying to read; he talks to you when you have headphones on; he talks to you when you pretend you’re talking on your cell phone; he talks to you when you walk away from him; he talks to you when you’re talking to someone else.

As most of you can attest, I don’t do well when strangers talk to me. I can think of a hundred different uncomfortable situations I could be in every day, and having to talk to strangers always tops the list. So essentially, Al Bundy is like the kryptonite to my Superman Commuter World. I can have a great ride into work if I can just get by him. But like Superman, I know I can’t attack him straight on so my sneaky defense lately has been to hide in the back of the bus with my headphones on, my head planted in a book, and my cell phone attached to my ear.

But today, without headphones, and with my book making me carsick, the kryptonite of Al Bundy got to me. He sat in the front seat and talked so loudly I could hear him all the way in the back. Because of all the negativity I associate with him, I pretty much now equate his voice to the moan of a dying mule muffled by styrofoam being rubbed against a chalkboard. Trapped in the back of the bus, I tried to escape but my Superman Commuter World powers were no match for his kryptonic voice. I was defeated. The bus ride ended and I dragged myself down the steps to the sidewalk below as Al Bundy said, “have a nice day.”

Third down and old

So I’m 27. There, I said it. In June, I was 26 and before that, I was 18. I used to be young and without a beer belly. I used to be able to hike Mt. Everest. I used to be able to run a mile in under 7 minutes. I used to be able to walk up three flights of stairs without getting winded. And then: I went through that stage after college when you’re stuck in that holding pattern waiting for the world to present itself, and all you do is sit at home and watch TV with a bowl of ice cream that miraculously never ends.

Since entering The Real World: Vermont, I’ve since broken some bad habits (ie, watching TV, the neverending bowl of ice cream, the nonactive lifestyle) but it seems like I can’t break the worst habit of them all: the fact that I’m 27 freakin years old!!!! And my body doesn’t function the way it used to. There was a time in my younger days when I jokingly made old-man sounds but now, now they’re real. I make old-man sounds now because I can’t help it. They just happen like they were meant to be. And not only that, but I have old-man injuries, too! I’ve thrown out my back, I’ve pulled muscles in unmentionable places, I bruise like it’s my job, etc. And so being active, though good for me, scares the crap out of me. Speaking of…

The other day I was invited to participate in the first of what I hope are many flag football games. The organizer is my friend who from here on out shall be known as Young Dude. He’s just about 21 years old and when I told him, “yes, but I should warn you, I haven’t played flag football since high school,” and he replied, “don’t worry, you’ll be fine, big guy,” I think he was overlooking the fact that high school, for me, was not three years ago but rather (brace yourselves here) 9 YEARS AGO!!! After this game of flag football, he’ll probably go play a pick up game of soccer somewhere and then climb down into Mt. St. Helens and eat a neverending bowl of lava. As for me, I’ll limp home, take a long hot shower, ice my legs and pass out on the couch at 7 p.m.

***Subject Change***

Before I forget, I wanted to mention the highlights of my Friday night: I went with some friends to hear Eric Schlosser speak at Champlain College. For those of you unfamiliar with him, he’s the author of Fast Food Nation, a book I think should be required reading in all classrooms. He wasn’t exactly an animated speaker but he was an eloquent one and like how I felt after reading his book, I came away hating the government and most fast food chains, and, as proof that my belly runs the Benchly Operation these days, I also came away craving a good greasy burger. But anyway, read the book. Unlike fast food, it’s good for you.

One final thing, I wanted to report that on our walk downtown from Champlain College, Sarah the L and her girl were spotted in the window of Mr. Mike’s Pizza. At the risk of revealing too much, I’m delighted to report that both seemed very happy with each other. =)

URTs and other signs you’re having a pre-midlife crisis

This past weekend, I was busy with the first of hopefully at least 67 annual life-altering road trips with old college friends. For those of you unfamiliar with this trip (all zero of you), the official title of the trip was the First Really Excellent and Annual Kick-ass International N’ Ultimate Road Trip (FREAKIN’ URT for short and URT for really short). I hope that those of you familiar with the trip will agree when I say that it was an incredible success. The highlights of the trip are as follows (in no particular order except maybe chronological):

1. Seeing and speaking to my friend Ms. Parker (who, incidentally, is the answer to the future trivia question: “Which one of Mr. Benchly’s friends did he mention first in his blog?”) for the first time in over 5 years;

2. Seeing my friend True for the first time in over 4 years;

3. The Travel Log, the official Weight Watchers Travel Log Pen of Justice, and the unofficial North Conway, NH Travel Log Pen of Justice that replaced the dead official Weight Watchers Travel Log Pen of Justice a few days into the trip;

4. Running over a baby seal at 75 mph;

5. Running into Baker at 3 mph;

5a. Baker running away at 5 mph;

6. Seeing my friend Mr. Billings and his significant other Cross and the wonderful world of Augusta, Maine;

7. Winning $4,500 from a scratch-off lottery ticket in Maine;

8. And discovering at the end of the trip that all participants were now speaking like Mr. Billings (a language we affectionately referred to as “Shaneish”). eg, “Mr. Benchly – talking like Mr. Billings. Ms. Parker – not amused.”

These are only a few of many factual and fictional highlights from the trip. More to follow later possibly.

Now, onto the most important part of the trip:

The URT allowed us the opportunity to venture to our old stomping grounds (aka, the University Whose Name Shall Never Be Said.) And after an all-too-brief walk around campus in which we discovered all students talking on cell phones; an all-you-can-eat buffet-style school cafeteria; motion-censor classroom lights; a Hudnall-less English Department; Freshman who could have very well been born after the Challenger explosion; and Seniors who were born after our first memories, the group decided in my head that we were all old. Very old. This concerns me.

That’s all for now. Goodnight.

In Stan the Sandwich Man’s name, I remain…

Mr. Benchly