There’s alot of unmentionables happening in my life right now and timing has not been as kind as i’d like it to be. I do hope and expect to get some time back soon, and i’d like to try to actually post more than before! (My condolences).

I think that anyone that’s read anything from me is starting to get a bead on the Pomeroy luck. In this case, buying a domain name and tying into my blog…only to lose time and not be able to contribute to it. See? THAT is vintage Pomeroy. Truly.

Obviously you may be curious to know what kind of unmentionables that I may be going through.

Well, know this:

1.    I don’t have a disease. Although whenever a mosquito bites me I immediately check for symptoms of Malaria.

2.    I’m not leaving my family and joining a musical. (Sidebar: I hope the producers of Grease don’t call…)

3.    I’m not held against my will. Other than to my career and to every friggin Real Housewives show on Bravo, which my wife adores.

4.    I’m not dead. (Although I do think it would be hilarious if I die before I post this).

I miss everyone muy mucho. But the Senor’ will be back soon!

Sans poncho.

Whether or not you like/agree with Barack Obama… it seems to me that his election alone has bridged another gap in how people of different races act and feel around each other. I’ve seen a sense of pride with many people since his historic win, and I think that this part of his election is a great thing. It shows that we’ve made a big step as a country in the right direction.

In my case, I can honestly say that I’ve never been someone to be prejudiced against any race. I am a city kid who was raised by a city kid. My mother raised me not to look at any person differently than another. (Well, accept scumbag people… she had a different idea of how to deal with them). I’m thankful that the only people that I grew up to fear was the people that thought it was a good idea for me to end up in a gym locker.

(Sidebar: It’s too bad I didn’t take my Nana’s advice. She showed me how to do a “Roxbury Uppercut”. This was the act of kneeing someone in the balls. Thank you, Nana.)

I always get a kick out of Stephen Colbert saying that he “doesn’t see race”. Obviously, he’s taking a shot at people who say this, and this isn’t possible. You always “see” race… but the question is how do you VIEW someone?

I got a job in Boston when I was 18 and I worked with people from all over the world. For me, it was a great introduction to understanding people better. Even though I’d met people who spoke many different languages and their skin was every shade of color from Pomeroy to Darth Vader, I had more in common with a lot of them than I’d imagined. When you have the fortune to be able to be that close with someone on a day-to-day basis, their color/background really starts to disappear. They just become a brother/sister to you. I guess working there was the closest thing I had to joining the military. People are just people, and living with them teaches you that.

After a while we would all hang out together regularly. We played basketball more than anything. Although I was a passable player in my neighborhood, I was the weakest link playing in urban settings with these guys. As a matter of fact, I remember one time we only had 9 people to play. I ended up on the team with 5, being the last picked. (Just like junior high all over again). Well, the captain was making defensive assignments for his team, and at the end said, “Just let Jazzy run around”.

(Sidebar 2: My nickname then was Jazzy Jeff).

But I got a kick out of the fact that they determined that I didn’t need to be defended. Just let me “run around”. Hilarious.

All of this reminds me of a story that I file under “Dumbest Things That I’ve Ever Done”. Needless to say, that folder is pretty friggin big by now. It’s hard to recall all of the times I made a fool out of myself.

My boss’ wife was having a surprise birthday party for him and asked me to attend. I was honored that I was invited and really wanted to go. I didn’t have a car because I didn’t get my license until I was 26. (Another story). I asked my cousin to come with and we took the train in to the city and walked the rest of the way. The house was on the Dorchester/Roxbury line, which was considered a tough part of Boston at the time. (Hence, nana’s ‘Roxbury Uppercut’).

When we arrived, it was easy to see that we were the only white guys at the party. There was one Mexican kid too, if memory serves. In a situation like that, you can start to understand what it must be like to be the only black person at an all-white party. My wife experienced this as well when she lived in Japan. It gives you perspective.

Now, I knew a lot of the people there. And we had a rapport from working/hanging together all of the time. It wasn’t uncommon to even make race jokes to eachother. For instance, I’d be asked to go out to play basketball, and I’d reply with something like “Oh, I can’t make it… I have that White Supremacy meeting tonight…”. And they would take similar pokes at me. It was the relationship that we had. However, not EVERYONE at the party knew of this, natch. So I probably should not have done the following act.

This African-American guy comes in mid-party. I think he was my friend’s brother-in-law. He was a tough looking guy. He had a mean face and was wearing one of those Jim Brown African leopard skin pillbox hats. I don’t know his real name, but he went by the nickname “The Count”. I know this, because he’d almost throw his hand at you and ANNOUNCE it with each handshake. Kind of like this:

“COUNT!”

“COUNT!”

And then, he came to me…..

“COUNT!”

That’s when I thought I’d be funny and do this….

“1..2..3..4..5..6..7..8..9….”

At first I thought I made a good funny….

But it didn’t take too much longer to realize the faux pas that I’d just made, and so began the awkward moment….

What an idiot.

Have you ever done anything that stupid? I thought I was going to be fucking keelhauled. I was petrified!

Lucky for me, my pals jumped in to save me with the other partygoers to explain that I wasn’t a raging bigot.

And as the party wore on, people started to realize that I was just a jokester and not as bad as the form I’d shown earlier. Wow, I learned my lesson.

I think that the best example that night of myself demonstrating that I wasn’t a racist was when I asked out this girl I’d met at the party. She kind of looked like Downtown Julie Brown:

I was crushing on her all night. After I shared my affection to her, it turned out that she wanted to have NOTHING to do with me. It was JUST like the many white girls that I’d expressed interest in those days who also wanted nothing to do with me.

See? We’re truly equal after all.

Pat is one of the best photographers I’ve followed on here… or anywhere for that matter. It’s funny to think of someone that takes crystal clear shots of a sunset or a building with just the right amount of light, or pictures of an everyday item making it seem abstract, communicating with a guy who takes pictures of himself acting like a retard. But hey, that’s life I guess.

You will not regret a stop by her page, I assure you.

Anyhoo, here is my offering to her series.

To ask me if I have any regrets would be like asking Elton John if he had any musical soundtracks. Where to begin?

My first thought was this:

“yee-hoo.”

What the fuck was I thinking? Well, my mom was dating a country singer at the time. He was a nice guy for sure… but he was a little annoying too. He was one of those guys that brought his acoustic guitar everywhere. You know the type. You’d be at a party and all of a sudden the guy would pull out the thing and break into song. There was always this look of bemusement on everyone at the event, because what kind of dick would like himself that much to start singing out uninvited?! PARTY-FOUL!

Well, he did treat my mom well and he bought me the hat.

(Sidebar: I wanted a Millennium Falcon… but I got the hat instead.)

So I wore it for my 5th grade picture… and everyone from the bullies to my best friend took shots at me all day and beyond.

This all could have been avoided if I got what Star Wars item I wanted, or had the foresight to take the fucking hat off!

Ah, well.

One of my biggest regrets ever though, was selling this:

That’s right, folks. That is Amazing Fantasy # 15… which I’m sure ALL of you know is the first appearance of Spider-Man.

That was on sale in the mid-80’s for $1000.00 at a local comic book store. That price is crazy considering what one of that quality is worth now.

I was working as a dishwasher at a restaurant, so I wasn’t exactly raking it in. One day I decided that I wanted to buy the book and the store allowed me to put it on lay-away. So every week over months and months I would go in and put down $10-$20 towards the cost of the book. And I will never forget the feeling I had at 16 years old or so when I made my last payment and walked home with it in my hands. I went into my room and opened it up to smell it first. (I do this with all old comic book purchases… old comic book smell is in my top 3 favorite smells). Then I read it in full. I read it several times previously in reprinted form, but never the original. I stored it away for safekeeping afterwards and life was good.

(Sidebar: Until I went to school the next day and ran from kids trying to kick my ass, that is).

In 1989 I rented my first apartment. Unfortunately, I was WAY over my head in expenses. At that time I didn’t know jack about finances and how to budget. It got to the point that I always had an empty fridge and would let my phone get disconnected. I’d only turn the heat on when I really felt I needed to be warm, just to stay in the apartment. What a dope I was.

I even left my beloved Kraft Mac & Cheese in favor of Prince Mac & Cheese because it was 10 for $1 instead of 6. Grim!

When push came to shove, I finally had to sell a lot of my stuff to pay off some bad debts that I rang up. And I sadly had to part with that wonderful book. The worst part is that I sold my entire collection for less than that one book itself. How much does THAT suck?

I still regret that… not just for the money. But for the significance it meant to me at that time in my life. It was the first time that I saved up for anything. I know I had to sell it. But there is a part of me that saw myself as a bum sitting in an alcove in Boston somewhere holding onto my Amazing Fantasy # 15.

That said, the only problem with that scenario is that it would have a WHOLE different smell, and certainly fall out of my top 3 favorite smells.

See? I fell better already.

… two can be as bad as one, it’s the loneliest number since the number 1”    - Harry Nilsson

Am I the only one that finds that bathroom business is irritating?

It’s like doing your taxes. You have to do them, and you’re happy when they’re done, even though you’ve lost more than you’ve gained. But you just wish it didn’t have to happen at all. However, unlike tax time, bathroom business happens every DAY!

(Sidebar: That’s one audit I wouldn’t want to attend.)

Even more annoying is dealing with some of the chuckleheads that you run into using public restrooms. Already, using “public” with something that should be private is NOT good in my mind. I don’t like retail, much less this debacle.

Firstly… would it KILL you to wash your hands? I am amazed how many people don’t clean their hands after flailing them all over a disgusting landscape of germs. It’s like a germ kegger! And when you have OCD like myself, you start to think about all of the people that shook your hand and know that odds are some of them didn’t wash theirs before they shook yours. In effect, you’re shaking more than their hand now. If I wanted to handle another guy’s schlong I at least would ask for a date first. Who knows? Maybe I like him.

By the by, that’s a good thing about having an OCD friend, which can sometimes be annoying. We all wash ourselves really well. So don’t worry, you won’t be handling my undercarriage if we meet.

I guess you could say that there are two major categories to deal with in the scary subject of public restrooms.

Number 1:

I’ll admit that urinating is pretty easy as a guy. However, I don’t like BECAUSE it’s so easy, some commercial venues decide to keep it too simple. Like, caveman simple.

The old Boston Garden was one of the worst. There was a big round trough and guys all stood in a circle and pissed in the middle. You’re trying to pee between periods of a Bruins game and all of a sudden you’re nearly in a circle-jerk. It was awful.

And that reminds me of the urinals at Nantasket Beach. The urinals sat back to back, with NO walls above them. So essentially, you’d be peeing and a guy would go to the one across from you… and you’d be looking at eachother in awkward manner.

The only thing separating the two of you from having a homoerotic moment is about 8” of porcelain.

Number 2:

When you’re talking about dropping your pants in public, I’m already concerned. (Unless you’re Kate Winslet, then I have to say I am perfectly ok with that). But when you add the idea that you potentially have to sit or hover over a seat that has rested who KNOWS how many asses before yours… It becomes truly scary to me.

I am on the road for work all of the time, so I have to deal with this often. And some of the restrooms out there are really frightening.

I sometimes wish that I had one of those wire harnesses that Tom Cruise had in Mission: Impossible.

I would be able to hover over the aforementioned dropoff spot, then swing around and do a cross-legged cannonball launch:

It’s brilliant, no?

Of course, with my friggin’ luck the wire would snap and the worst case scenario finally makes itself known to me:

Maybe I should stay on my feet.

One way I could lighten up the moment for myself…. When nobody is looking…

I’ll plie’.

(Sidebar 2: I know… I know… I can’t do a plie’ at all. But in my defense, do you realize how hard it is to take a picture of yourself acting foolish in only 3 seconds from a laptop? Maybe the arabesque would have been easier.)

Another thing that I hate is the “showdown”. I’m not grand at letting myself fly in a stall when I’m surrounded, if you catch my drift. So when someone comes into the stall next to me, I usually try to wait the other guy out. But every now & then… I find a true adversary. Another guy who wants to wait ME out. You end up both sitting there quietly until one of you finally gives in. It can go on for a while.

I have lost a few of those bouts by the way, but I know I’ve won more than I lost. I usually celebrate with the raising the roof gesture in the confines of my stall:

“Oh yeah…. Oh yeah!”

After the win, you dispose of the many layers of protective paper you’d stacked, flush the toilet with your foot and kick the door open to depart. Wash, rinse, and repeat.

So, if you ever end up in a stall next to me, would you let me win please? And promise me that if you’re going to touch me in some way that you’ll WASH your hands first? Do we have a deal?!

How about we shake on it?

Hands, that is.

Ask yourself this question… how many peeps do YOU know that wore a “Back off man, I’m a Ghostbuster” sweatshirt in school? I couldn’t tell if anyone else in my school would wear one, because it’s difficult to see your classmates from a gym locker. But that’s me.

I’m really lame in the fashion department. (I’m also lame in many other departments, but for the sake of this note we’ll stick to my lameness in fashion). 

If you know me well you’ll know enough that I have a consistent look. The T-Shirt/jeans look is my look. Basically I have several stacks of over 100 T-Shirts. I usually just grab my pants and the shirt from the top of a stack each morning. When I go on vacation, I count out how many days I’ll be gone, and then count down from the top of the stack how many T-Shirts I need. This way I don’t have to put any thought into what I’m wearing.

My wife is astounded by this fact. My standard reply is either a wink or a “Hey, you married in to this” comment. I wish I had a count of how many times my wife shook her head in disbelief at me. That would be a cool stat.

I’ve never been a fashionable fellow. I’m sure that might be hard for you to believe after hearing about the Ghostbuster thing, but it’s true! Even when I was a kid, I was fashionably challenged. For instance, I wonder if I REALLY liked this outfit:

I certainly hope not. I have the look of a bad comedian or real estate agent. You’d fast-forward 20 years & you’d see my face on a ‘Red Blazer Realty’ card or something.

(Sidebar: Can ANYONE tell me why Real Estate is the only business that has the requirement of having the salesperson’s fucking face on their business card? What’s up with that?)

We had no money when I was a kid. One of our favorite places to shop for clothes was a place in Quincy, Mass called the Bargain Center. It’s long gone now, but it used to be a very popular place for those who wanted to save a buck on clothing. The locals would call it “The Bah-Gee”. They’d say: “We’ah goin’ to the Bah-Gee”. The Bah-Gee was NOT known for brand names, that’s for sure.

My father took me there once to buy some clothes for school and ended up picking some items for himself. He bought some sneakers that had this enormous “M” on the side of them. Where we lived, if you had sneakers that weren’t cool, they were called “Bo-bos”. I was laughing at his Bo-bos and I asked what the ‘M’ stood for. Without missing a beat, he answered: “Macho!”

He would have gotten the last laugh, however. I remember ending up with this disco zoot suit from the Bah-Gee one year: 

But I think I may be getting better as I get older. I picked out a suit last year that I liked, and it tuned out to be designed by Michael Kors. I told my pal Steve “Hey! This was designed by the head judge of Project Runway”! And then I said to myself, ‘I hope I didn’t just say that out loud’.

I’d like to hope that this trend would continue, but methinks I am what I am by now. I’m not sure I can change my fashion awareness.

I ain’t afraid of no ghost.