Damien Galeone

In my outlandish attempts to stay out of a motorized scooter, I work out a lot. This sounds more impressive than it might initially seem. This basically means that six days a week I cry, sweat, and shout obscenities at a deity I don’t believe in for 26-32 minutes. It’s basically the same as going to the bathroom and eating, but the time is shorter and longer, respectively.

After a year of working out four times a week and gaining a steady pound a month, I decided something more needed to be done. I realized of course that battling for control of my waistline is food and beer and the fact that I love them more than oxygen or my mother. Was I going to give up food and beer? No. Never. At most I was able to move them to two days a week, Friday and Saturday, at which time I did as much damage as I could on the other five days. I did this guilt free, unless I thought about it, which is why I didn’t. And I successfully replaced thinking with carbohydrates. It was a foolproof plan.

By February my pants no longer fit and I was beginning to breathe heavily while doing math in my head. The two sacred days were untouchable, but what I could do was add more workouts.

I added two days, which made it six days a week. Two days of home cardio, two days of dumbbells, and two days of running. Running was a throwback for me as I used to be a runner because I realized the efficacy of home HIIT workouts. Also, I decided that running sucked the sweat off a dead giraffe’s nether regions. But I added it because HIIT workouts and dumbbell routines involve many parts and keeping track of time.

Running is easy. You go to a park, choose a route 3.3 miles long and a finish line, run until you get there, and then stop. Easy. All you have to do is not collapse and die on the route and you’re golden. No time keeping, no specific exercises to remember and execute while trying to not aggravate your downstairs neighbor. Just run. Simple.

This worked fine for a while. My pants were buttonable without losing consciousness from oxygen loss. I could do math in my head without alerting a nearby paramedic corps. I had figured out the secret. Eat reasonable five days a week, two days a week eat like Babe Ruth at his neighbor’s Bar Mitzvah, and exercise six days a week. Brilliant.

But then autumn came. Autumn is my favorite time of year – cool, crisp, cobalt blue skies, changing leaves, dark nights. Autumn signals me to watch spooky shows, read ghost stories, and to take long walks and think of adventures, past and future. Unfortunately autumn also signals me to eat and drink carbs in the form of comfort food and dark beer until I explode. Not too many adventures this year, but I did that part about the carb thing.

It’s a Friday night. Besides me, everyone is in the living room and asleep. Bela the cat is on the pillow behind me and Maisy the Shih Tzu is splayed out on the rug surrounded by toys and the remnants of a smoked pig foot that has made her happier than money or success ever will for me. Burke is asleep on the couch. Seinfeld – newly arrived on the Flix – plays unhindered on a very low volume.

Many things these days happen at a low volume or with genuine attention to keeping quiet. This is because the canine hand grenade sleeping on the rug currently dictates the mood of the house, which, though in a state of soporific warmth and coziness, can change on a dime. One wrong move, one misstep can turn this sleepy living room into a barking hissing maelstrom of activity that I will almost certainly be relating to a therapist someday soon.

It’s for this reason that I don’t venture into the kitchen for the chocolate chip cookies I so greatly desire. Maisy the Shih Tzu has a nose for food (any: human, cat, dog, probably duck). So the number one way to become a beacon for a tail-wagging, barking Shih Tzu is to put anything near your mouth. The number two way to attract the attention of this pup is to walk out of the room. Maisy the Shih Tzu has evidently been gifted with the instincts of a green beret. Walking out of the room even with her completely zonked out will result in her raising her head, following me, and then peeing. So I go nowhere and I read.

I’m reading Devotion by Max Brooks. If you haven’t heard of this book, it’s worth looking into if you like eco-horror, Bigfoot, or really bad things happening to quasi-annoying people. The story is about a small eco-centric community of five smart homes set remotely in the foothills or slopes of Mt. Rainier. The community has one access road and the homes are powered by waste and sunlight. Their supplies are delivered by drones. The people who live there are in no way outdoors enthusiasts, nor are they the survivalists who might have with them arsenals that could have carried the U.S. Marines at Iwo Jima. They are well-off city slickers. So when Mt. Rainier erupts, cutting off their one link to humanity, they decide to shelter in place. This would probably work were it not for the fact that a tribe of Sasquatch has been forced to find new sources of food. lar power.  and , consisting of six smart homes and a central Community House. They come across these pragmatically useless people, mayhem ensues, and we get a very non-Discovery Channel version of Finding Bigfoot(‘s Arm in my Ass).

I was making a pot roast earlier today and was sitting at the kitchen table reading. I put my book down because I had had an epiphany: I was thoroughly enjoying myself. The kitchen was warm, the windows were steamy. Outside the weather was pretty autumnal – gray, rainy, chilly. The oven growled as it cooked my dinner, but otherwise all was quiet.

There’s no secret behind pot roast making a person happy. It’s pot roast, by definition a huge chunk of pork, and by design roasting with potatoes and carrots in apple-black cherry juice. Heaven.

But that wasn’t all of it. I reckoned that I was enjoying the settled feeling that I had. It was being happy like an old person. If you are happy like an old person and you have the experience to understand that that is what you are, then you might just be old. Alarming? Possibly. But no. For I have had this epiphany before. I am old because I enjoy old people things. Also, I’m feckin old.

Among these old people things are making a pot roast. There’s something about prepping a meal that takes three hours to cook that offers so much quiet pleasure. The only gastronomical better is crock pot cooking. There’s simply nothing better than working or going about your day with the knowledge that your dinner is cooking itself at home while you’re taking care of other things. It’s a joy that deserves its own adjective. Crockulant. Crocktated. Crockiful.

There’s also the joy of doing laundry, the humid comfort of having warm wet laundry hanging around the flat. After, there’s folding and putting it away and the knowledge that should President Barack Obama call me to meet for a drink, I can put on clothes and not be afraid of stinking.

They had started out with two ships. The famous Mayflower and the less famous Speedwell. Their trip had been infamously difficult before even hitting the open Atlantic. The separatists had had to turn back three times due to leaking ships. They’d had to spend a week getting repairs and some pilgrims had been forced to sell their belongings to pay for those repairs and dock fees. Also, they had been swindled and conned. On a third attempt, they made it past Land’s End, but the Speedwell was found later to be overmasted and this caused weaknesses in the ship which caused the leaks. In the end, eleven (insane) passengers transferred to the Mayflower and they set sail to the New World.

Contrary to the cheery pictures many of us grew up seeing in school of pilgrims in suspiciously wide buckles beseeching God from the confines of a ship’s cozy quarters, this was not the case. The Mayflower, perhaps in a rare form of foreshadowing, had transported 200 wine barrels up the Atlantic coast of Europe. But not people. Most people, unless you happen to be related to me, are a bit taller than a wine barrel. Most of the men could not stand upright. The crew    

The passage was a difficult one that took just under two months. Seasickness was rampant and everyone – soldiers, adventurers, separatists, and crew – ate salted beef and hardtack made of flour and water. And everyone drank beer. For generations of Americans to come, the pilgrims would represent the first Americans, but they were, for the time being, English. And English people did not drink water, they drank beer. Beer, it is said, is the 17^th century’s water. It was full of nutrients, vitamins, taste, alcohol. Oh and it wouldn’t kill you after putting you through a week of debilitating stomach pains and explosive diarrhea.

As they traversed the stormy horrifying Atlantic, their concerns seemed to be twofold. Their primary concern was that their rickety ship would split apart, sending them all into the frigin waters of the Atlantic. The Atlantic that many if not most of them firmly believed held sea monsters, a belief probably not thwarted by the sightings of sharks and whales. Without those beasts, however, it’s important to remember that should their ship go down, they would die. There was no beacon, no SOS, they would simply die in a horrific manner in the middle of a monstrous ocean on the way to a place which held salvation, but also, at best unknown strife, and at worst, more monsters.

Their second concern was running out of beer. In the back of the boat were large tanks of beer and as they began dwindling late in the voyage, Captain Jones became antsy. Once he began rationing the beer, the health of those on board suddenly began to turn for the worse. People came down with scurvy and other stomach ailments. Beer was not only nutrition, but it lightened the mood and steeled the spirit. A beer with its low alcohol content and high caloric content was essential and if it was running low, there was going to be a problem.

So when they spotted land at Cape Cod on November 9, they were elated. Who hasn’t longed for arrival and the beer it promises. But the problem was that Cape Cod wasn’t their destination. It’s perhaps overlooked that though the pilgrims were going to the New World, the New World wasn’t a wide open free place. It belonged to people. So the separatists were allowed to go to the New World, but only to the Virginia Colony, which ran from Virginia to the Hudson Bay Valley, which was significantly to their south. Their tactical error was due to a heavy storm that had thrown them off course early in their voyage and crude sailing tools. And let’s not forget beer. In a time when most men’s drunken aim can’t find a urinal imagine trying to hit a spot on a continent 4,000 miles away when you’re washing down every meal with beer and rum.

Captain Jones made a left and headed south. Unfortunately, the ninety miles through which they had to traverse was called Pollock Rip, a maze of dangerous shoals, hard breakers, and terrible undercurrents that had and has trashed hundreds of boats. An estimated half of all shipwrecks on the east coast lie within this stretch. If they went ahead with the plan, they faced almost certain doom. Captain Jones made the call – they turned back and landed in Cape Cod.

The implications of this are such: instead of landing where they were legally sanctioned, the pilgrims landed in a hostile, unknown area, and all because they needed a beer. In other words: the story of America.

When we got a dog in July, we knew that one of the challenges would be its interaction with our cat. I have had my cat, the quasi-infamous B Monster, for thirteen years. She came to me a kitten with the disposition of a 71 year old man who had a bag of meth on him at all times. She was grumpy and very active.

Though the B Monster has chilled out with age, she is still capable of sprinting through the flat with the speed of a locomotive and the unhinged demeanor of Chris Farley in 1991.

Enter puppy. A little white mop of hair who so far has expressed inclinations towards chewing on things, peeing on things, and a separation anxiety I suffered on my first day of kindergarten.

The cat was incredibly awkward at first, but soon got her legs under her and began a campaign of figuring out exactly what had been introduced to her house. Because make no mistake, this house belongs to the cat and I pay the bills.

When the cat is not asleep, she is near the dog, observing her from under the armchair or atop the ottoman or from a bookshelf. Sometimes she sits like the Sphinx a few yards away and stares at the dog as she embarks upon her clumsy antics. Wherever she is watching from, there come a series of small quacks and meows.   

One night a few weeks ago, Burke and I were watching TV in the blissful quiet of our living room. The cat was dozing on the armrest of my chair. Modern Family playing background to our evening. And yet there was an unease tripping through my nether-bellies, alerting me to a disruption in this perfect period of quiet and content.

I looked to my left to see that taking up the entire left side of my living room was a robin egg blue doggy pen that came up to my waist. Underneath it, protecting my floor from future gallons of urine, was a green checkered picnic blanket. Bags of dog food lined my once tidy bookshelf. And I at once recognized the anxiety traveling through my body.

We were getting a dog.

I stood and was bitten by the equally anxious cat in a not-sure-what’s-up-but-me-no-like way. Then, edging the pen out of my way to the right and moving a pile of puppy pads off of my bar cart, I excavated my carafe of Irish Whiskey. And, taking a deep breath to provide space, I drank directly from it.

Life had become too quiet. I spent my mornings in the kitchen writing. The cat always sitting on my lap for a period of that time until my prose insulted or disgusted her in some way and she moved to the other chair and rued her lack of larynx and vocal range. My days involved a walk by myself in solitude, after a morning of work. Lunch and dinner were not disrupted at all by the discovery of urine or the recognition that a small animal was about to create some on my floor or couch or pillows. The cat had become content with running the household. She dallied when she wanted and screamed at us for salmon and chicken when she wanted. We gave in instantly and as a gift she would go off to sleep or sit contentedly on the couch or the chair. Too quiet. Blissful.

Enter Dog. A Shih Tzu. Small. Sort of like a dwarf if you catch her in the right moment. White with brown ears. One black eye, one pink (oddly same as the cat). No teeth yet (vet was a little freaked out by that, but they’re coming in). Maisy.

One of the bright sides of a pandemic and the world falling to pieces is the books. And the loungewear, but that’s a different blog. And the lacking need for hygiene, but that’s a different blog, and probably a doctor’s visit.

The problem with a pandemic, aside from all the, you know, illness, is that while I am reading lots of good books, there’s nobody to tell about them. Trying to bring up books on the phone is like trying to tell someone about one of your dreams. And the last time I tried to recommend a book to the nice waitress at my local pub, she told me “sorry, I have a boyfriend. Also, he’s big and a police officer.”

So, now that leaves you poor souls who still read my blog. Here are some books I’ve read over the pandemic that you might like and even read over the next, sadly inevitable, lockdown.

Guns, Germs, and Steel by Jared Diamond

A brief history of all humans everywhere and the entire world and why some people have stuff and some people don’t seem to have so much stuff. Sound intimidating? Here’s the thing, it’s not in the least. It’s just brilliant. Jared Diamond lays out the entire history of the world in an accessible way that doesn’t make you want to clean your household weapon. Not only that, it is possibly the most interesting book I have ever read. On each page, I found myself saying: wow, I didn’t know that. Wow, I didn’t know that either. This book will make you smarter. Maybe even smart enough to get the vaccine.  

The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman

If you love a good cozy mystery, British English, and old people, get this book now. Richard Osman spins a tale of a murder in a senior community and makes it hilarious and compelling. He creates these very real characters that extend so far beyond the common drooling cliches that often inhabit a senior community. Funny, charming, and told so well, this book is a brilliant beach book or just for when you need a break from Netflix.

Night Shift by Stephen King

OK, OK, I know, I know. Stephen King on a must read book list, how cliché. But the thing is, there’s a reason he keeps showing up on them. Night Shift is a collection of stories written in the 1970s and they are frigging awesome. There’s one thing I have learned about Stephen King is that he does not faff about. Nobody is safe in his stories – not women, children, nor main character. If you want throwback horror that doesn’t give a shit about hurt feelings or your fears, then read this. With the lights on. And with your mommy nearby.

The Last Girlfriend on Earth by Simon Rich

OK, when you get done reading Stephen King and you need to lighten the mood with some humor, you get this book. I heard about Simon Rich because he wrote the Seth Rogan Netflix movie An American Pickle. The movie was bad, but I just chalked that up to Netflix magic. I looked him up and got this book of short stories. I was finished the next day. You will be too. It’s comforting knowing that the boyfriend of the last girl on earth, God, and magical goats all have trouble with love.

This is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper

A novel about a Jewish family whose patriarch dies and who sit shiva as part of his last request. There are a lot of “zany family comedies” out there and a whole lot of them fall pretty damn short because they try too hard to make the family comedic and zany. This book is about people, damaged and sad, but getting on with life, and it is laugh out loud hilarious. Wouldn’t you like to read a book that makes you laugh out loud so you can us lol just once and actually mean it? Also, this is a movie too with Jason Bateman, Tina Fey, and a busty how old is she again? Jane Fonda.     

In the stadium 80,000 spectators waited for a marathoner to come through the aperture. It was hot at the London Olympics in 1908, but if the spectators were miserable in the heat, the marathoners were in hell. The track had been newly resurfaced which made it hard and inflexible enough that Russian dignitaries hired its engineers to put in gulag floors. Of the 55 runners who had started the marathon at Windsor Castle, 27 dropped out, most before the mid-point.

So when the little Italian pastry chef in red shorts came stumbling into the stadium, 160,000 eyes goggled and 80,000 mouths encouraged him towards the finish line. Perhaps anticlimactically, Dorando Pietri ran in the wrong direction and collapsed. He collapsed four more times. Medical staff, concerned he would do a recreation of Pheidippides’ 490 BC marathon and literally die, helped him across the finish line. He was holding a hollowed cork wedge.  

Runners carried cork wedges to relieve stress in their hands, but hollowed out they can be used to store energy drinks, which instead of Gatorade, would have been wine or brandy. This revelation would have caused no scandal – of course the runner had been drinking. So would the next three runners to cross the finish line. Pietri had snagged the lead from South African Charles Heffron after he’d collapsed with stomach pains from drinking champagne with two miles left. The favorite, Canadian Tom Longboat, also collapsed after having champagne. Pietri was lucky to make it to the stadium before he collapsed.

Favorite podcasts – we all have them. Podcasts have become a huge part of my intake. I think that podcasts are a great way to learn, laugh, and inform ourselves. Here are my current favorites.

Andy Richter’s Three Questions  

This is a great interview show. If you need to laugh and like a good conversation, this is it. Andy Richter was/is Conan O’Brien’s longtime sidekick. While I have always loved Conan, my only complaints about his show were that there wasn’t enough time with Conan and there wasn’t enough Andy. With Andy’s podcasts, there aren’t a lot of zany antics, but just very human and delving conversations with his very cool guests. Honorable Mention for interviews: Conan O’Brien, Marc Maron.

Word of Mouth

This is a BBC podcast headed by writer and linguist Michael Rosen. It’s all about (the English) language and features linguists and historians talking about fascinating aspects of the long and cool history of the English language. Some of my favorite episodes include metaphors with Stephen Fry, Viking language, pub names, biscuit (cookie) names, and how places got their names. So cool and fun and informative.

Bedtime Stories

This is also a British podcast (don’t judge) which is done in short 20-minute episodes in which Richard While tells us, well, a bedtime story. A creepy, disturbing, real-life bedtime story that you want to listen to, ironically, at any time other than when you are not going to bed. Brilliantly researched and told (While is a great narrator and writer), these are very interesting stories that have occurred throughout history.

You’re Dead to Me

Another history podcast from Britain. Greg Jenner hosts each episode on a specific theme or person (e.g. young Napoleon, the Pyramids, America becoming a country) and an historian who is a specialist on the theme and a comedian to act as sort of humorous foil. A well done, informative, and fun way to learn about history.      

Based on a True Story

An American (finally!) podcast, in which Dan LeFebvre talks about a film which is based on a true story (hence, the name) and an historian or expert in that area. Essentially, they discuss how true to history or real life the movie is. Great episodes (that I have listened to, but I haven’t listened to that many) are The Last Samurai, J. Edgar Hoover, and Master and Commander. But possibly the best so far is the 3-part episode about Band of Brothers. This was fascinating.

Over to you!

Please Share your favorite podcast! I’m especially looking for horror tales (fiction or non) to round out my collection.