Bitch, please.

My parents are from Brooklyn, New York.

If you’re a New York native, specifically Brooklyn, it’s pronounced New Yowahk. If you live in upstate New York, the silent “r” seems to disappear and most letters of the alphabet are back in play. Strangely, I have some upstate NY friends that speak with a harder “r” than most.

Maybe they’re compensating for their southern counterparts.

My name is Sean. The spelling of it has plagued me my entire life. If you were my mom or my dad, the correct way to say it was Showahn. And don’t rush it- be sure to get both syllables in where they belong.

Maybe that’s wrong- maybe it’s Shojaun with a silent “j” like in Jesus.

No, the other one.

Upstate, Boston, and beyond

Upstate NY natives always called me Shaan. I can only assume that they were being unknowingly sympathetic toward me because of how those nearer to the Big Apple said my name. Even so, they also missed it by just a smidge.

It was all in complete contrast to most of those in New England where I grew up. My friends all called me Shawn. I know, right? The nerve. A few rebels went with Shaun.

My Boston friends have their own spin on it depending on what part of town they’re from.

If they say Bahston they’re calling me Shahn. You can determine who those people are when they talk about Hahvahd. On the other side of town in Bowaston, I’m Showan. It’s a distant relative of my parents’ New York version.

I used to think that I was unique until I did a search and found 500 other Sean McCarthys in the Boston area alone. Maybe that’s why people have as many variations of how to pronounce it as they do clam chowdas.

Don’t even get me started on my friends from Rhode Island. They’re stuck in between Bowaston, Showan, and Harvard. Talk about not knowing where the “r” actually belongs. Pick a fucking consonant, people.

Sticks and stones

From teachers on the first days of a school year to anyone reading my name from a roster, you could see them all try their hardest to guess at the pronunciation. Over the years, I’ve just accepted being called Seen, Shane, Seehan, or Sheen.

You would think, though, that as people got older they’d have met a few people with my name and spelling and maybe figured it out.

Nope. No one gives a shit. As soon as people of all ages open their mouths to say my name I’m transported back to fourth grade with yet another fill-in teacher missing the mark.

There was one substitute who regularly took the reigns for numerous grade levels during my grammar school days. She got the pronunciation of my name wrong every fucking time. What a bitch.

Then again, the cheering change of attitude as the entire class entered the room realizing that we had her for the day may not have helped. Those of us that ignored our prior homework assignment quickly knew that we just got a lifeline. Our give-a-shit-ness as a whole quickly faded away and things were about to get pretty relaxed and unruly.

This all may have contributed to her less than pleasant demeanor and unwillingness to cooperate with how to properly say my birth-given name.

Roll call in the morning had her using guess number one. If she called on me to read aloud, she tossed out version number two. Watch out if she was trying to get my attention for me screwing off in class. It was like she was randomly throwing darts at a dartboard and trying to put my fucking eye out- Shane, Sheen, Scott!

Yes, I’m positive that at one time she actually called me Scott. It was clear by this point that she’d lost all faith in any potential humanity or capabilities of childhood students and said fuck these kids while throwing in the towel.

This all normally occurred within the first 30 minutes of the day every time she was our substitute.

The fact that she kept coming back for more over the years is pretty astounding and I’m kind of finding more respect for her decades later.

But then I think back to how well she pronounced the word asshole.

It was seemingly her preferred title for me as I’d regularly hear her say it under her breath when I was nearby. Maybe the trick to getting my name correctly was to say it quietly in the same manner.

Maybe the key was to just. settle. down., Mrs. whateveryournamewas.

Traumatized, or…Trammatized

My whole life reads like a Hooked on Phonics course.

Thanks, Mom & Dad.

I won’t even get into how I had to have speech therapy as a child because I pronounced the word orange as awrange due to being brought up around that same New York accent. People way up north apparently figured I had a speech impediment and they were determined to beat it out of me.

After perfecting it and nailing the citrus fruit every time from then on, I found myself at a friend’s house in Rhode Island years later where he offered me awrange juice for breakfast one morning.

For fucks sake.

At Starbucks I just tell them my name is Bahb because it’s easier. They still usually get it wrong and spell it Bob.

They probably went to Hahvahd.

Yawn.

In case you hadn’t heard, 2023 became yet another year for Hollywood writers to go on strike.

Pussies. Try being a songwriter and let’s compare royalty checks.

With some of the movies made in the past decades, it seems like they never went off strike. Or at least, they never wrote anything new.

Here’s my writer’s strike short take movie list shedding a little insight, aka spoiler alerts.

A Star Is Born

Female lead becomes more famous than her initially more well-known alcoholic partner who commits suicide. The writers probably thought they were being different by killing off the co-star in different ways each time.

Genius (eye-roll).

Some people say how much better the last version was than the earlier ones. No shit. They had 3 previous versions to learn from. This was made four different times since 1937.

The Great Gatsby

Rich guy throws good parties, screws around, and gets shot.

Money isn’t everything, kids.

Also made four times (1926). Maybe they think we all forget after a few decades.

Batman

Rich guy’s favorite holiday is Halloween even though he won’t admit it. He sucks in a friend to wear a crappier costume. It’s like going out with someone who you know isn’t as attractive as you are so that you get all the attention.

Cool stuff and gadgets were all named the bat-something, clearly cementing who the sidekick wasn’t.

Everyone seemed to get a chance to walk around in tights and a black cape at one point or another over the course of the remakes. It’s almost as if they draw names out of a hat every few years to see whose turn it is with the amount of Batman films that are available on whatever bat-channel you feel like watching.

Tell those bat-stards to cool it already.

Superman

Guy who flies around can apparently hide behind a single pair of standard eyeglasses or inside a clear glass-walled phone booth. He’s also afraid of green rocks and women.

Likewise, he enjoys tights and a cape, albeit a bit more colorful. He seems to be more into the whole look-at-me thing with his whole bird-plane shpiel vs. the previous dark knight’s philosophy of hiding in the shadows.

A Christmas Carol

Asshole cheapskate gets scared and finally shares his money on Christmas.

Pretty sure he’s back to being a dick once the new year hits. We’ll never know because no one ever comes out with a sequel. They just keep telling the same ghost story over and over again.

At least a dozen of these gems exist. Doesn’t ever get any more scary.

Peter Pan

Kids in tights without supervision. Pretty sure some psychedelics were involved.

This went on for over 20 movie renditions. Odd, no one in Hollywood seemed to mind a bit.

Robin Hood

Tights and men with bows and arrows stealing and being heralded by the locals.

Reminiscent of the government and capable people on disability.

From a silent movie in 1908 to 50 or so versions later.

Dracula

This one sucks.

Over 60 movies.

60.

Sixty.

About a dead guy who drinks blood and wears a cape.

At least he didn’t wear tights.

Tight spaces should be temporary.

The budget for the couple’s tiny house was $125k.

One-hundred twenty-five thousand US dollars for a roughly 200 square foot living space. For comparison, if your house has a bathroom that’s 8 x 12 feet, you’ve just used up about half of that. That’s not 200 square feet to live in, that’s the entire size of the pad.

Slap in a twenty thousand-dollar kitchen and you’re eating every meal on a flip-down table with bench seats.

Hmm, now, where have I seen this layout before?

Oh yeah, in a fucking campground. In a camper, trailer, RV, or whatever you want to call it. Half the price, twice the amenities and it hooks up to your friend’s truck easier than your overpriced shoebox on wheels.

Peer television pressure

I grabbed the remote and turned the TV on.

There it was, Tiny House Nation. Ironically titled, since every tiny house on the show seems to be located as far away as possible from civilization or any nation in general. Either that or it’s parked in someone’s backyard in exchange for a sizeable rental fee.

If I wanted to live in someone’s backyard, it wouldn’t include paying rent on top of my overpriced dollhouse mortgage.

I’m going to skip right over the incoming water and outgoing sewage requirements of that configuration.

I have only one question. Why?

The wheel exists

Each year in New England when the brutal winter releases its grip on your ball sack, yes, ma’am, even yours, springtime makes way for RV owners everywhere to prepare for the upcoming camping season.

They spend an entire weekend unpacking their beast of a temporary home on wheels. The annual pilgrimage then begins. Dozens of area husbands and wives will team up for one of the two times each year that their Reece hitch will earn its place on the tail end of their well-detailed pickup truck.

The amount curse words mumbled under the breath of each spouse during the backup ritual to connect truck to trailer will test most marriages. Each can do the other’s job better and they’re not afraid to let them know it. Still, they endure and persevere for the greater good.

Once the connection is complete, the trek to the local campground within a mile or two from home commences.

It’s an exciting time and everyone can almost see and hear the crackle of the outdoor fire pit and smell the burning wood smoke.

The women imagine themselves floating on a mattress complete with a cold drink in one cup holder and their phone in the other. It all takes place in a pool full of screaming kids that they’ve mastered being able to tune out.

They shoot for more of a sunglasses and single vibe than a married and miserable persona.

The men picture themselves being men. Drinking beer, being the grill master, and pouring lighter fluid on the firewood that they brought in from home against campground regulations.

Although, their primary job is to spend the summer running to the store or back to the house to grab something that was forgotten when their significant other got out of work before heading to said summer camp.

Mosquitos be damned. This. Is. Happening.

It’s a decades-old tradition that began long before the nationalization or rationalization of any tiny house television talk.

Cause for divorce, or worse

Any experienced married couple knows that a summer of weekend-only campground stays is temporary. Two weeks in a row with rain and everyone cramped inside even the most up-to-date RV playing UNO or Go Fish and you can bet your ass someone is staying home the following weekend regardless of the weather.

Honey, let’s build a tiny house and live in it forever.

It’s the conversation starter that precedes the best six o’clock news headline.

Save your money, save your marriage. Stop at your local RV sales center. Take out a 30-year mortgage for something on wheels that you can put away each year while enjoying space in what your other 30-year mortgage pays for the rest of the year.

Plus, if you have a tiny house out in the middle of nowhere, who’s going to be able to take heed of your “If the camper’s a rockin’, don’t come a knockin’” sign?

And got a little cupping action from my massage therapist.

I woke up one morning with what felt like a dozen Charley horses in my leg.

I’m not sure who the fuck Charley is, or why their horses were in my leg, but they clearly weren’t going anywhere. I had no choice but to agonizingly slide myself off of the bed and onto the floor. It was there that I instantly questioned my decision which had now left me twisted like a badly formed sourdough pretzel that resided on the floor.

I wasn’t getting up, and Charley’s horses clearly weren’t listening to any of my verbal commands to help pull me out of this rut.

It became my normal routine:

• Wake up to excruciating leg pain and curse Charley
• Slide like a sloth onto the floor
• Grab onto anything that would allow me to pull myself up to the least painful standing position
• Contemplate life for a while and how important my leg actually was, or not, until things relaxed so that I could hobble my way to the next room to start my day

Fun. But It didn’t stop there.

Over the weeks waking up was no longer so much of a thing because I couldn’t sleep. I needed help. I went to my chiropractor a couple of times. Slight relief, but no fix. I also saw a kinesiologist to no avail.

With no resolve, I hit up my primary care physician. She kindly printed out 3 pages of hamstring exercises along with verbal instructions to look them up on YouTube to figure out how to actually perform them. She also handed me a business card for a sports massage therapist who apparently worked miracles.

A quick look at the handout along with barely being able to put on a sock at that point and I can’t even tell you where those useless things ended up.

A phone call to the massage therapist consisted of her explaining all of the techniques that she’d use to try to address the issue. One, in particular, was cupping. A few things to consider here…

• I had never been to a massage therapist.
• I’m a guy.
• My only experience with cupping had nothing to do with fixing anything painful, quite the opposite, actually.
• I’m a guy.
• I was interested in this cupping thing.

Days later, I found myself with a half dozen three-inch plunger-like things sucking the absolute fucking bejesus out of specific points on my back, leg, and recently shaved ass cheek, per her previous recommendation so that the cups would stick better.

Ever get a hickey on your neck that you had to hide from your parents after a good make-out session in the back seat of a car that you never should have been in in the first place at that age?

Cupping is a distant relative of that. Except that this relative hates you.

When you cry uncle, they say fuck you and keep sucking. They leach onto you and invite their friends to hate you and latch onto other areas of your skin. The sheer burning that is experienced makes you wonder if this whole thing is legal and has you questioning why you’re about to pay for it.

Lastly, you thank the holy hell that exists that the cupping is kept as far away from anything that you’d hoped it might include before agreeing to it.

Oddly, there was some relief that followed. However, I’m now convinced that the relief was from when these bitches finally were released from my skin.

I paid the lady and I included a tip. Upon hearing that another session was required, I hoped that it might help her show more mercy during the next suck session and I made my way home.

My next appointment was a week later on my birthday. Surely she’d show some compassion based on my special day along with the bruises on my skin that she left on me from our prior make-out session.

Nope, not a fucking chance. Twice the plungers and double the cupping.

Fuck me, and not in a good way. I didn’t even get a Happy Birthday out of her.

My body must have been keen to it by now because at the end of it all, not a single bit of relief this time. Paid, tipped, and made another appointment for a few days later that I’d bail on for another visit to my chiropractor instead.

My chiropractor had a look of concern. He checked a couple of things and said that he wasn’t making any more adjustments without seeing some x-rays and an MRI.

At this point, I was no longer only losing sleep and barely getting out of bed. I’d migrated to the sofa for the evenings and my daily regimen consisted of doing the wounded soldier with my good leg pushing me along to whatever would allow me to prop myself up where I’d remain for the better part of the next half-hour.

I’d cautiously walk around the dining room table while holding onto the backs of the chairs as if I were racing a snail and losing by a lap or two. The snail would finish and I’d keep going for another thirty minutes.

For the next 10–12 hours, I’d stand up with my laptop at the kitchen counter doing whatever work I could while eyeing the butcher block for the best knife for leg removal. This went on each day while I lived on Advil and caffeine.

Each day, I carefully went over each knife blade and what it might have to offer.

My x-rays showed nothing. After a few weeks of different doctors trying to find some way around the insurance company’s unwillingness to cover an MRI, someone had success. Of course, that required traveling a couple of hours from home for someone who found it excruciatingly painful to sit or lie down for any length of time.

I knew that the MRI required that I didn’t move inside the tin can. I was given my choice of music to listen to that I wouldn’t be able to hear or focus on regardless. I took a few deep breaths and chose to meditate.

Yep, all that buzzing and banging going on and I was able to meditate my way through it. Once I was extracted with zero fanfare, the tech asked if I had fallen asleep. He was impressed when I mentioned my wide-awake ability to focus under the circumstances.

Here’s how I did that…

 

The MRI results showed a moderate bilateral foraminal stenosis at L5-S1.

Short version? One of the holes in my vertebrae was smaller than it used to be causing the nerve to go in normally, but come out like a flat ribbon. This resulted in a pain that I can only compare to childbirth. Although, I’ve been told to maybe not use that comparison around women who’ve actually given birth.

I met with spine surgeon number one.

A nice enough guy, but after hearing a few keywords like, uncomfortable, never seeing anything like this before, and not wanting to do more harm than good had me fearing that I’d be stuck with nothing but a life of useless and pleasure-less cupping sessions.

His solution was to do spinal injections and hope for the best. If that didn’t work, then we’d discuss the surgical option.

Ummm, I’d have a beer with this guy, but he wasn’t getting near me with a fucking scalpel.

I had previously reached the point where I was begging my regular doctor for something that would relieve the pain. I’d stopped at an ER on the way back from my MRI and the attending was kind enough to give me some Oxycodone.

I’m well aware of the actual pandemic that is going on relating to the prescribing of opioids. I barely take an aspirin if I don’t feel well. I’m not one to take pain meds. In this case, I was about to be someone who took pain meds.

She had conceded and gave me nine pills, enough to get me to my next ortho appointment. The rationing as if I’d just asked my mom for more than one cookie for each hand as a child continued, as did the pain.

The day after my visit with Dr. McGillicuddy, I called back to see what my other options were. I was kindly told that they’d see if another surgeon would take a look at my results. Within the hour, they called back and I had my second chance at sparing my butcher block kitchen knives from being an accomplice.

By that point, I’d chosen the bread knife. Sharp and serrated, good for the muscle and bones.

The appointment was the next day. Unlike my drinking buddy who brought the computer in and used shiny objects and the production to show me how good my spine looked yet still wasn’t able to find a smoking gun, this doc was a bit more no-nonsense.

He walked in holding nothing but a piece of paper with his notes scribbled on it. He had me perform two physical tests, stepped out to look at my MRI again, and came in with my options- surgery being the only one that was gonna fix this mess.

Less than a week later, I’m lying on my sofa typing this after a successful back surgery yesterday. Turns out, they found a small bone fragment as part of the cause.

Basically, I broke my back. Or, at least I’m going with that because it sounds way cooler than saying that a little arthritis caused that whole stenosis thing.

Aside from now having what I hope will be a cool scar once it heals, there was a moment where I may have actually shed a happy tear that this is behind me. I’m so excited that I might get up and treat myself to a snack in the other room since I can actually walk now.

My post-op instructions are pretty straightforward:

• Walk as much as is comfortable, gradually increasing daily
• Don’t sit too long
• Don’t lift anything heavy
• I can drive once I kick my Oxy habit
• No sexual activity for two weeks

I might call up and see if that last one includes cupping.

I’m as surprised as you are.

I stumbled upon a piece about how influencers weren’t reading people’s stories, so the collective “we” should stop reading theirs.

It wasn’t the actual article that got my attention. It was a comment posted by a reader where they basically told someone with a rather large following on Medium to f*ck off. I say large following, the targeted person probably has one of the largest followings.

News flash, that person’s not going to read or see your comment, either.

They’ll never know that they should f*ck off.

The premise of the comment seemed to imply that writers with large followings only want you to read their material, but don’t have time for us little people.

Hmm, okay. You mean those same writers who freely share their wealth of knowledge and have potentially inspired thousands of readers to start writing?

I’m here to burst your bubble.

If you’re doing anything in your life with the goal of the person or people that influenced you to start doing it in the first place actually acknowledging your work in any way, stop it. Now.

First, Stephen, Steve, or whatever his friends actually call him, doesn’t give a sh*t about me. Sure, I’m a nice guy. I’m sure he would very much enjoy visiting with me and having coffee and a blueberry muffin at the small cafe in his home state that he occasionally visits based on the local rumor mill.

Truth is, there’s actually a better chance of that happening than him reading anything that I will ever write. Even if I wrote some amazing horror novel, he won’t care or call me to share his thoughts. Why?

Dozens of reasons.

For one, people like Steve are too busy doing whatever they’re doing and paying attention to events, music, movies, and literature that they care about and enjoy. Plus, I’m too small of a fish in the literary sea.

I guess I could always leave a copy outside the gates of his Bangor, Maine house. The chances that he’ll do anything more than run over it with whatever cool car he’s currently driving are nil.

I’ve actually been almost up to the gates. It was years ago, but, I was in town and figured I’d stop by. I’d like to think that he didn’t answer because he was probably already out and about that day and we just missed each other.

The truth is, he didn’t give as sh*t about me then, either.

Admittedly, I don’t write horror stories. Full disclosure, I like a lot of Steve’s books, but in movie form. I’ve never read a single one.

However, he’s apparently pretty famous if even I know his name.

Yeah, that’s how you sound, too, if you think that anyone who’s that big respectively on any online format or in the world is paying attention to you or what you create.

Nope, I’m not comparing someone with “100 million” Medium followers to Stephen King. I’m simply referencing those with the largest reach on a given platform.

I’ll extend it a bit further.

Let’s say that you picked up the guitar because one of the many virtuosos out there sparked your interest. Maybe you painted your first sunflower, either because you stumbled on a Bob Ross rerun, or you were enlightened by an original Picasso that was stolen on some TV show. Good for you! But, stop right there and slow your Prussian blue roll.

If you believe that you’re entitled to the reciprocity of engagement of your work by someone more well-known than you in the same field as your undertaking, best of luck. You’re going to find out that it’s still just as cruel of a world out there as it always was.

You started the thing because you were inspired, not for the accolades of anyone else. Keep that in check, be consistent and consistently improve. Do that, and your audience will take notice. Maybe not that famed person that initially inspired you, but plenty of other people that you don’t currently give a sh*t about either.

Probably not gonna include Bob Ross or Picasso at this point, though.

Write the book, sing the song, paint the picture.

And if you see Stephen around, tell him that he still owes me for the coffee and muffin that he never showed up for.

Tattle tales of the corporate ladder

I’m a freelance writer for a reason.

For the times when I chose to work for the man, I felt caged, controlled, and almost angry at myself for allowing myself to be belittled regularly.

I understand that in whatever work we do, we’re all accountable to someone else at some point. In the corporate world, however, people are consistently accountable to upper management. Apologies, I mean, Upper Management.

If you don’t believe me, ask your supervisor who has a supervisor.

Let’s put you down for a minute

Nothing makes a person feel like less than someone else than when the Leadership Team is mentioned in conversation. It’s the instant way to draw a line between those that do the work and those that expect the work to be done. In whoever said the bad word’s defense, it’s the culture. They’ve been part of it for so long, they probably don’t know any better.

The irony in that culture is that there’s so much team-building talk that is regularly thrown around by this year’s fresh-on-the-job HR person, they seem to miss the morale-building part of the exercise.

I knew someone who once said about his corporate job, “I didn’t come here to make friends, I came here to make money.”

Needless to say, team-building is wasted on him. It’s too late. He can’t be helped. Also, I’m not sure if he really falls victim to low morale because of his naturally pleasant demeanor (eye roll).

Hey! I’m (not really) in charge!

Those in middle management on a corporate conference call can drive me up a wall. These are the same people that name-drop who’s actually in charge on a daily basis. Hint, it’s not them.

It’s not that they aren’t important to the company. Seriously, just ask them and they’ll tell you. They’re the busy ones pointing fingers and need a tactic when they feel like the directions they’re giving aren’t being heard. It’s then that the corporate threat is unleashed, “I just want to make sure our ducks are in a row so that so-and-so from leadership doesn’t come down on us.”

So-and-so…that would be who calls the shots and shoots the ducks that aren’t in a row.

It’s two birds with one stone, really:
1) The middle person just alerted you to who they are.
2) You just learned that if you don’t acknowledge who they are, they’ll tell on you.

Cross ’em and dot ‘em

Seriously, if the sh*t hits the fan because someone’s eyes weren’t crossed or someone didn’t show up on the dot for tee time, your name’s coming up next on the regularly scheduled and ill-timed daily morning meeting call.

You’ve now been warned and the corporate finger’s gonna be pointed at you.

I can’t count the number of times on those calls that I had to triple-check that my mute button was on before choosing to share my feelings out loud about so-and-so or the person giving the dire warning on their behalf.

I learned to just bite my tongue and resort to exercising my finger. You know, the one next to the one that I normally point with.