The Large Man Chronicles

The geek posse at table 3, here at the Sly Fox Tavern, are working their waitress pretty hard – not from a service standpoint, but from a patience standpoint. I watch her pretend to be flattered; but the body language is all there…Dudes! Look at me, look at you…get a clue. She’s not letting them get to her, she brings these guys their beers, food, and a size small t-shirt.  Size small…I think I was 11 the last time I wore a size small T-shirt.

I’m not working my hot waitress though, Gina is only 18. She’s a beautiful 18, but still 18. I am immune to 18. Gina is a great waitress, and a knowledgeable beer wench for someone who doesn’t drink beer. I asked Gina to bring me an Odyssey Imperial I.P.A., a cup of Minestrone, and a blackened salmon Caesar salad – she did these things with a smile. What else could you ask for? If you ever find yourself slightly north and west of Philly, check out The Sly Fox in Royersford PA. It’s a very friendly and fun place. It’s a warm refuge on a cold November night.

Finding places of refuge in this cold cruel world is a must if you travel like I do. I’m always up for trying something new, but tried and true will usually win out if I get a vote. Places that give us comfort or people who give us peace of mind are  more valuable than the finest jewelry, the fattest wallet, the skimpiest bikini, or the most skillfully crafted beer.  The key is knowing when you’re there.

Because I had the advantage of some age and experience, the first time I kissed my wife, I knew that life as I knew it was over – it was the very last thing I wanted or needed, but I knew what it was the minute it happened. It was magic. The first second I laid eyes on my daughter, I knew I was hosed for the rest of my life – in the eyes of this little angel I saw my heart, not the heart that I thought I had, but my real heart. The first time my son fell asleep while laying on my chest, I knew that I could never hate myself again. I could never hate anybody again. This boy took all the hate out of me. If you spend time with this kid, he’ll do it to you too. This is what my home is like. This is why I look so good in all the pictures my wife takes. I’m not an attractive man – at all, it’s just that I’m (mostly) at peace…a peaceful nature looks good on anyone.

My home is a refuge. It’s a place where you can relax and be comfortable. This was really evident to me last night when I had a couple of out-of-town customers stop by for some pizza and a few beers. These guys are customers, but our relationship is one of friendship, and I loved having them in our home.  I think they had a good time; they sure jumped at the chance to go there when I offered choices for the evening. It was a great feeling.

We have a nice house, but it’s nothing fancy. Our furniture is old, most of it from when we were first married – still probably a year or two away from being replaced. We’re very proud of some artwork featuring our kids from my friend Margi, and our cousin Stacy. Our BFF Becky sculpted our dog in a circus setting, this artwork sits proudly on a bookcase, and there is sketch of a cowboy on a horse done by my friend DJ that would be a coveted piece of art by anyone. But other than a few personal treasures like these, there isn’t much in the way of material value. But anybody that would take the time to read a Large Man Chronicle would be the kind of person who would know that “material things” don’t make a home. The spirit of the house is what makes it a home. I think my wife is the spirit of our home.

Before I got married I never really had a home; I just lived in a house, and most of that time I wanted to be somewhere else. All of the houses I have lived in had heat, but most of them had very little warmth. They had electricity, but very little light. There was nothing wrong with these houses they just weren’t home.  It never felt great to get there.

But I also remember going to homes where it felt nice as soon as you walked in the door. Like the house could give you its own little hug. Some homes have warmth and light no matter the time of day or month of the year you visit.

I’ve mentioned my friend Rachael and her younger sister Carla in a Large Man tale or two. I have remained close to these chicks for over 30 years; time and distance apart have had no influence on our connection. As I look back, I think it was the sanctuary of the kitchen and dining room of their childhood home, and the gentle spirit and nurturing company of their Mom that forever connected me with these girls.

Mrs. Hopun was an art teacher living in a nice townhouse in the suburbs of D.C. She had a son in college, and two hot daughters in high school; she drove an orange Ford Maverick, spoke with a soft and deep feminine  voice, and I’ll never be able to explain that “something” about her presence that soothed me like a warm blanket on a cold winter night.

Her pretty daughters made me want to behave and be cool, but Mrs. Hopun and the sanctuary of her home, the priviledge of sitting at her dining room table, made me want to behave and be nice. There’s a big difference between cool and nice. It’s the first place that I remember as a “refuge”. Sometimes I think it’s funny that I remember it that way, because Rach and Carla were no strangers to sibling rivalry and a little bickering now and then…so it wasn’t always a place of peace, but it was peaceful for me; somehow, it all just seemed to settle me.

I remember storming out of my house as an 18-year-old, half boy/half man; pissed off about something (who knows what)) needing someplace – any place to go, and winding up at the Hopun home. I would knock on the door, walk in and simply say “Hi” and Mrs. Hopun would look at me through those great big 1979 “Mom” glasses and it would calm me down. She seemed to know.

Carla and Rachael’s Mom didn’t have to be nice to me; she chose to be nice to me. Rachael and Carla didn’t need a “big brother”… they had an awesome older brother who they both admired and looked up to. But they all still made room for me – I will ponder, “Why?” until the day my ponderer no longer ponders. I was, and am today, so lucky to have them as friends.

When I’m full of piss and vinegar, and someone is “testing” my peaceful nature… sometimes, it’s Mrs. Hopun’s spirit that calms me down. I hear her voice, I see her smile, she looks at me through those glasses and I can dial it back.  As much as I love Carla and Rachael, and I know that they love me, their Mother is the stronger influence in my life.  Sadly, Mom Hopun passed away a few years ago, not so sadly, her kindness has stayed with me. I wish I would have known how fondly I was going to remember that wonderful lady – I would have given her a few more hugs.

But, as we all know, times change, situations change, and hot girls find other boyfriends, or they go off to college, or they find boyfriends and go off college. Friendships remain, but that open door policy at Mom’s house changes – or you think this anyway. The mind of a 20-year-old half man half boy is a wreck in the best of circumstances. When that mind is terrified of its future, you can’t count on the rational process of thoughts. You can count on mayhem in some form or another. Had I written a blog in the late 70’s or early 80’s, it would have been called The Mayhem Chronicles.

Enter Kim, and a humble little efficiency apartment tucked in the middle of suburbia; another refuge. Kim’s place was an example of what I might aspire to in terms of a dwelling, when, or if, I ever decided to grow up. It was so cool! Kim had a job in the city; Kim had this sweet place – of her own! It was everything I thought a person could ever want.

At Kim’s you could listen to music as loud as you wanted, or sit quietly and watch TV & eat pizza on a snowy night, even if you had to walk miles to get there. You could sing along with the records on the stereo at the top of your lungs without shame, you could dance without a partner, and you could laugh until it hurt – all night long.

Sometimes our gang met at Kim’s place before a night on the town, most of the time we crashed at Kim’s place after a night on the town. Sometimes we would rendezvous at Kim’s in anticipation of a big night on the town and end up just staying there. We were having too much fun to leave! I wonder how many times Kim had to step over smelly stinking man-children on her way to work in the morning.

None of us dated Kim, she was a little too smart for that – she was a big sister. She was a fun person to be around, and she was always there: there for me, and there for her other friends too. As with my time with Mrs. Hopun,  I didn’t realize back then how those evenings with Kim would become memories that were going to be treasured by all of us,  and how her place of refuge forged friendships that would last a lifetime.  Though I didn’t give her enough hugs and appreciation back then, I never pass up a chance to give her one now – and I never will.

I’m gonna finish my beer, here in tonight’s temporary refuge, and then I’ll brave the cold and the wind and the couple hundred yard walk back to my hotel. Then I’ll dream about what it’s going to feel like when I walk into my nice warm home tomorrow night. It’s good to have something to look forward to.

Thanks for reading.

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The title of this Large Man tale – this cautionary tale, comes from the epic Bill Murray film, Stripes.It takes place in the beginning of the movie; he makes the comment as his super hot, live in girlfriend walks out the door – she breaks up with him because he has ruined her dry cleaning, and their dinner, and he’s lost his job. “And then depression set in…”

I have seen some sadness on the streets of life lately. I’ve watched friends pour their hearts out on Facebook, and I have listened to them in person, screaming for answers and help for their blues. I have been told by a few people who care about me that I haven’t been myself lately either. After a very frank discussion with a loved one, I see things more clearly.

It’s been a challenging year, but it’s been a good year. My life is good. There have been victories and failures along the way, but nothing outside the normal waxing and waning of the tides of life. There are good days and bad days, and there are good times and bad times within the days. We all experience it; how we react to these things obviously varies from person to person.

“And then depression set in…”

I’m not a doctor (I am typing in a Holiday Inn Express though) so obviously I’m not qualified to write a “white paper” on the subject of depression.  I won’t get into all the theories on serotonin and various other chemical levels in our noggins. All I want to do is tell you what it feels like for me. This may not seem like your normal Large Man subject matter, but if I can help just one of the readers of my semi-regionally successful blog that reaches literally dozens of people on a monthly (or so) basis, I’ll be OK with it.  Or, if there is a Depression Awareness Society of some kind that picks this up, and they wanted to send me $5,000.00 for writing the piece, well obviously that would be worth it too. Helping someone or getting paid, I’m good with either one.

That’s me, The Large Man. Funny guy, the puller of heartstrings, and the charmer of ladies. I am a loyal friend to bartenders, Hooter’s chefs, craft beer brewers, “dancers”, and whoever happens to need a fourth on a golf course – all across this great land of ours. The Large Man that is all of those things is also a guy who has been left behind by friends who couldn’t handle the volatility anymore, a guy that has been forced into anger management by a former employer and, simply put, and a guy who suffers from depression.

But Large Man, what do you have to be depressed about? You have a beautiful, healthy family, you have a great job, you have friends that stand by you; you have a semi-regionally successful blog that reaches literally dozens of people on a monthly (or so) basis! You have a house, 3 cars, 3 pairs of golf knickers, testicles the size of grapefruits* and a heart the size of Texas. What on Earth could you be depressed about?

Good points all; but when you suffer from depression, it’s different. Good things seem undeserved, the tiniest inconvenience seems monumental, true hardship becomes  unbearable. It’s different for everyone, for me the overriding emotion is the feeling of wanting to take a sharp pencil and jab it into the eye of my adversary…and that adversary could be someone who simply left a grocery cart in the middle of a parking lot.

I am not chronically depressed. Even though Tom Cruise emphatically suggested I should not be, I have been on medication for this condition. I will remember forever the words of my doctor when I first discussed the issue (about 9 years ago). She told me that often times “…when men are blue, they behave red. Your depression shows
itself in anger.” I replied to her with something like she was an idiot and a quack, and that her Alma Mater, KU, was a step below the med schools down in Grenada. Then, later that evening, upon reflection of the moment, her point started to make a little sense to me. I called her, apologized, and told her that I would agree to take some medication.

I’m lucky that I had people in my life who were invested in me enough to try and help, and people who loved me enough give a little nudge. I should have been fired by my former employer, but my boss was my friend so he gave me the option of getting some therapy or a pink slip. Reluctantly, I chose counceling. I will say to this day that I’m lucky the counselor was hot, so on visit one, I wanted to stay with her…by visit four, I was learning things, and by visit twelve (my last session) I could see what I had been doing, what I needed to start doing, and how I could tell when I needed to do these things again. It was the best thing I have ever done for my health, I didn’t enjoy it as much as I enjoy a prostate exam, but I did find the time well spent. I’m a better husband, father, son and friend because of the time spent with this psychologist. I took the meds (I think it was Paxil) for about 6 months…I had no side effects, but I have heard some horror stories – it’s not for everyone, and I am NOT advocating anything. The medication worked as one part of an overall therapy strategy for me.

That’s an extremely abbreviated history that brings us back to the here and now. Lately, I am red again. Not quite like I was 8 or 9 years ago, but just generally pissed off… waking up angry but not being able to attach the emotion to anything. Then late one night in a hotel room somewhere in America, it hit me like I was Mike Tyson’s bitch – I had a revelation!  I sprung out of bed, and wrote a 1,500 word Large Man Chronicle on how the business practices of men and women of the new millennium, from Wall Street and Constitution Avenue, all the way to Main Street in Podunk, was the root of my anger. I solved this case of “unexplainable” rage. Whew! There came a sense of comfort in knowing where all this red anger was rooted.

Later that day, as I was driving home, I was talking to my wife on the phone and telling her about all this…all this knowing. And how having this knowledge was going to at least give me an idea on how to release, or let go of the anger, hostility, and pissed-offness that had plagued me over the last week or so. This was good.

She listened patiently. She said “um-hmm” and “wow” when appropriate. She let me finish. When I asked her what she thought of all this, and when it was her time to say, “Dude, you have it so figured out!” she said, “I think that’s great honey, but have you given any thought at all the fact that it was your mother’s birthday a couple of days ago, and that you are traveling your ass off, and that you are not getting any sleep, and when you get depressed, it shows in anger?” She didn’t add “dipshit” or “dumbass!” at the end of her retort, but either one would have been appropriate.

I just replied with, “Oh… Yeah… I guess that could explain it too.”

When somebody loves you, they see things that you don’t, or can’t. One of the worst things about depression, or an episode of depression, is that sometimes you don’t see it coming, or the direction it’s coming from. As I stated earlier, it doesn’t have to be about anything, but it can be. It can be about losing your job, a bad break up, the loss of a loved one, or it can be about nothing at all.

Now that my “knowledge” is a little clearer, I can go to work on the problem.  I make time for some “down time”, this is the best therapy for me. Maybe better to call it “down time with purpose”. Lying on the couch won’t help. Lying on the couch and watching Stripes will help, because laughing helps.  Cleaning my garage will help, exercise, writing Large Man Chronicles, and spending time with my kids always helps.  As I said earlier:  it’s different for everybody, but these are the things that work for me.

“Do what I do, and say what I say…” is another famous line from Stripes. I am NOT advocating that.  Just because I have experience, it doesn’t make me an expert. I have a lot of experience drinking beer and chattin’ up babes, it doesn’t mean I should write about…it…well…ok, that’s a bad analogy. What I’m saying is, if you think you are going through something like what I have talked about here, talk to someone else…doctor, minister, family or friend. Don’t be strong and silent, and try to fight your way through it alone; be strong enough to ask for help. Be smart. Be healthy.

We’ll talk about things that are more fun next time… places of refuge, connecting with old friends, or other great movies like Stripes. Until then, thanks for reading.

Big Love.

* This is what is known in the literary world as a metaphor.
I’m not speaking physiologically – that wouldn’t even be comfortable. I’m
speaking in terms of fearlessness, entering the fray chin first, swinging for
the fences and all that sort of stuff.

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For reasons we will surely discuss some other time, I was in a really bad mood on Thursday. I was in Austin, TX, a place that I love to visit, and I was becoming ever so frustrated with work and life…something had to change. I was a walking knot of frustration. Worse than that, I was wasting the precious time spent in this favorite geographic region in a miserable, emotional pool of sorrow and self-pity.  I was in need of beer, and balance.

I explained my predicament to the concierge at my hotel in downtown Austin, and I asked him, “Where can I find beer and balance?”

“Do I look like a fucking psychiatrist to you? What are you, some kind of sissy or something?” he replied.  I hate it when people reply to my questions with questions. I think he was new at his job.

So I said, “Shut up!”

“You shut up!”

“NO! YOU SHUT UP!” And since I replied to him with all capital letters and an exclamation point, I won the argument. Unfortunately, I still had no idea where to go. I was advised earlier to try a Mexican place that had a great reputation, and this reputable place was within easy walking distance of my hotel. I wasn’t feeling very Mexican this evening, but without any alternative advice immediately available, I thought I should head in that direction until I could devise a plan.

So I defiantly pushed my way through the revolving door and stepped out onto the funky streets of downtown Austin. It was about 5:30, the working folk who were my age, were heading back home to suburbia, in a hurry to make it to their kid’s soccer practices, fantasy football drafts, and barbeque grills…and the working folk who were much younger than me were heading to the local pubs, cafés and eateries.  The city streets were alive with motion on this hot and sticky evening.

A few blocks into my journey, while standing on the corner of Willie Nelson & Brazos Drive, I heard a sound that seemed familiar, sort of a “clinking” sound. I recognized it as a happy sound, and I felt just the slightest loosening of my neck muscles. I turned towards the direction of the sound, and I heard some conversation, and some laughter…I was drawn. I lost my sense of decency at an early age, so my other senses are a little more acute than most people’s; I could smell fryers boiling with canola oil, bacon cooking in cast iron pans, and I could smell beer. So I walked a little further down Brazos, and I saw a neon sign that spoke to me. It simply said, “Beer Garden”.

I’m no detective, but all the signs (including the bright neon one) were telling me that there might be a beer in this place. I thought I should stop in and take a look inside, do a little “horticultural research”, so to speak, and then maybe go to the Mexican place for my evening sustenance. It’s always important to have a plan, and I now had a plan in place.

And then I walked in the door, The Cedar Door to be exact (that’s the name of the place), and then my plan fell apart.

The plan fell apart because Austin, a 20-something year old beauty from New Jersey who looks like she belongs on a beach, gives an excellent first impression. When Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys wrote Surfer Girl, a girl like Austin was the picture in his head.  Austin asked me if I wanted a table, but I chose the bar; there was a TV with the Yankees and the Red Sox baseball game on, a few tap handles that I had not seen before, and the bar area was a beehive of hot waitresses, quirky patrons, and good times. I can’t even remember the name of that Mexican place that I was going to…Austin’s (the girl, not the town) hotness wiped my memory card clean of all unnecessary data.

So I take my seat at the bar (I just love saying that!), and Jesse (a good dude from Cincinnati) the bartender informs me that “all Texas brewed beers are on sale for $3 a pint. We have some nice local brews on tap.”

It’s like he knew me before I even sat down. This was a very different interaction than my experience with my hotel’s concierge.

I asked, “Do you have a local I.P.A.?”

“The Five One Two” was his reply. Jesse, like most Texans from Cincinnati, is not a man of many words, but he makes his words count. This is an enviable quality.

“Giddy – up!” I said, enthusiastically, with a hand gesture that expressed my anticipated satisfaction with the impending transaction. I love this place, and I’m less than 2 minutes in the door.

“Giddy – up” echoes back to me, but not from Jesse, it came from the service area of the bar, that place where all the waitresses pick up their drink orders. So I look in the direction of the comment, and just as my heart rate is settling from meeting Austin, the excitement of a skilled bartender that can read my mind, and the realization that I am walking back to my hotel room, so responsible consumption of alcoholic beverages won’t be necessary this evening…just as I’m getting over all THAT; Sheena walks into my life.

I look at her, she looks back at me and she smiles. Sheena is not a big girl; she is just a big presence. Sheena has big expressive eyes, a gorgeous big mane of dark hair, several tattoos, and a nose ring. I’m a 51-year-old Republican with a young daughter, and puritan principles. All of my internal wiring and emotionally conservative pathology should have turned me away from this visually wild young lady, but simply put, she was too striking to turn away from.  Sheena was from Houston, by way of Nantucket, and Sheena, like Austin, was beautiful. She was also very funny, and she taught me some book and cover kinds of lessons that I won’t soon forget.

So I get my beer, I continue to responsibly admire the pretty young waitresses, and I look over the menu hoping that I can find any excuse to stay at this quirky little bar. The menu doesn’t blow you away with its diversity, or its volume. There is a limited selection of “bar food”; appetizers, burgers, and a few salad offerings. I asked Jesse to “give me a reason to stay”, and after some discussion, he suggested the White Wings (chicken breast chunks, stuffed with a slice of jalapeño, wrapped in bacon, and dredged in Buffalo sauce) and a salad, and another beer. I challenged his suggestion, offering to him that I hail from the country’s most bountiful wing region, and his response was, “Dude, this isn’t like anything you’ve ever had – trust me”. I did, and he was right. This was an outstanding, very simple meal. Other people who I spoke with that evening said the whole menu is like that…simple food done well, with a clever twist here and there.

The 512 (pronounced “Five One Two”, not “Five Twelve”…I was corrected) beers were very good. The brewery is named for Austin’s (the city, not the girl) area code. I tried the I.P. A., and the Pecan Porter.  I would give both of these brews a solid 3 ½ thongs on The Large Man’s 5 thong scale. My final brew choice was the Thirsty Goat Amber from Thirsty Goat Brewing, and again, 3 ½ thongs would be my rating.

While enjoying my beer, watching the game, talking to the other staff members, and waiting for my food, I met one more beauty, Brittany from Bloomington (IL). While Sheena, and Austin, had a look that distinctively said something, Brit was just classically beautiful; pretty blonde hair, blue eyes that shine like the stars over Texas on a moonless night, and a smile that only shows itself while she talks to someone.  She seems to be the sweet one of the gang, but I’m not sure. The first time I noticed her, she was getting her drink order, and being lightly pelted by ice chips tossed from Jesse.  When she laughed she melted the ice chips, and pretty much every heart in the bar. Pretty girls and skilled bartenders do a lot for the pub experience. It doesn’t get much better than The Cedar Door.

Three times during my meal, patrons from the bar, or customers coming to get a pick up order chatted me up. Big Lou, a rather large, well built, Latino looking gentleman in a Dallas Cowboy’s tee shirt kept sneaking out of the kitchen to check on the score of the game. He told me he was a Sox fan, “ever since I was a little kid”. It was hard to imagine Lou ever being little, but he was a good guy, and he cheered like a little kid when Big Papi hit a 3 run homer in the 6^th.

The Cedar Door is friendly, and fun, and it was just what the doctor ordered for my sour mood. I am sure the Universe felt my need, and steered me to the corner of Willie & Brazos, and that beautiful neon “Beer Garden” sign; my senses did the rest.

 A couple of times during the evening I discussed The Large Man Chronicles with Jesse, Brit, Austin and Sheena, I told them the things that I liked to write about, and at some point I asked if I could use their names in my blog, and Sheena asks, “Is it gonna be dirty?” As I started my flustered reply, she interrupted me, “…cause that’s ok.” Then she smiled that big mischievous smile…and then I realized that the knot in my shoulders was missing, and the stiffness in my neck was gone, and I couldn’t remember what I was trying to forget when I walked into the place.

Pretty girls and skilled bartenders will do that.

Thanks for reading.

http://www.cedardooraustin.com/

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