​It was somewhere around 1988.  I was trying to establish myself as a cameraman in the Boston market.  I’d already been working in the business for ten years, paying dues and working hard, but the work had always been in “steps-up-the-ladder” supporting roles, first doing PA work, then as a Grip, then as a Gaffer, then as an Assistant Cameraman.  The good thing was I getting to work around a lot of different Directors of Photography, some of whom were excellent, some of whom who were qualified, some of whom who were not, and some of whom who were absolutely awful.  


Turns out you can learn something from each of those categories.  That was great.  I learned a lot.


But by 1988, although I’d been making progress, I still hadn’t been able to establish myself as a shooter, a genuine “Cameraman”, the status category which had always been my goal.  It had so far always eluded me, and I was eager to make my leap.  Then one day I got a call from a producer over at a company we are going to refer to here as:  Nameless Productions.  


It was a break. A twist of fate.  A spilled glass of good fortune.  A random splash of luck.  And courtesy of Nameless Productions, I’d gotten some on me.


It seems a work acquaintance of a work acquaintance had recommended me to the folks at Nameless Productions.  Quite incredibly, the thrice removed recommender had recommended me as a shooter.  To this day I still don’t know why, or how.  There may have been substance abuse or mistaken identity involved.  In truth the recommending party had never seen me aim, frame, or shoot anything.   But the next thing I knew, Nameless Productions was calling me to see if I was interested in working on an upcoming video news magazine piece they were putting together for an out of town client.   “We’re still getting the details...” is what they told me.  But the important thing, and all I heard, was that I’d be working as the second camera operator on a two camera field interview for a broadcast client.  A national broadcast client.


Yes.


Bingo.


Jackpot.  


The chance to work on something that would be seen nationally represented a huge step forward for me.  This wasn’t town league softball.  This was the semi-pro Major League Baseball.  So I was, to say the least, pretty happy.  After all it was one thing to be plunked down on to a production as a robot, a droid, a drone, a high school AV Club geek dweeb running studio camera on any one of a million variations of the in-house corporate talking head training video that made so much of my local market.  


This was different.


This was sexy. 


This was a total stranger calling me, based on my professional reputation, no less, ...to shoot in the field!  With actual  producers, and actual reporters…actual journalists…on a nationally broadcast production!


For fucking money!  


National, man….NATIONAL!


Even better, Nameless was an established shop, owned by a couple of well known guys.  Well known locally, anyway, which was good enough.  These were guys who had a lot of industry clients and a lot of network connections.  They were  high profile.  They were known.  They worked with three letter networks.  They worked with celebrities.  I’d seen their names in credits.  Fuck, man....  I wanted to be them.


So this was a big step forward.  A foot in the door of a big time boudoir where all kinds of prestigious delights lay waiting. 


But then, of course, because this is the planet Earth, reality set in.  


At the appointed time, on the appointed day, when I showed up for the appointed production, I learned exactly what we were going to be doing.  


I got the “details”.  


Those god damn, mother fucking details.  


Turns out it wasn’t exactly the prestigious high end production I had hoped for.  It wasn’t the journalistic crown jewel I’d envisioned.  Turns out it wasn’t CBS Reports.  Dan Rather wasn’t going to be there.  Turns out there were a couple of “details” that were more like, wrinkles. 


First, the interview to be conducted was for what was at the time, indisputably, the penultimate tacky tabloid television miscarriage shitbox of broadcast journalism then polluting the American airwaves.  It was nationally broadcast, because it was nationally syndicated.


There’s no need to name the program.  If you were alive, American, and owned a television in the late 80‘s, you at some point watched it and felt shame.


Second, the interview was going to be between a “reporter” and, not one, not two, ...but eight teenagers who were going to talk about a spontaneous graveside shrine they’d assembled to honor a good friend of theirs; an unfortunate kid who had been struck and killed by a car while trying to run across a busy local highway.  The memorial had become their hangout, a place to gather as a group and feel close to their lost friend.


Grieving teenagers socializing in a graveyard.  That was the hook.  That was the story.  A perfect opportunity to exploit a tragedy.


And as the kicker, the interview was to take place literally on the kid’s grave.  Right there, on his barely cold grave.  Cameras, tripods, microphones, ...on a dead kid’s grave.

WOW!  Holy mackerel!  What a year, eh???  Especially for us Rasts!


And as the final days of 2014 come to an end, it is with the sincerest sense of charity that we hope that your 2014 was just as awesome as ours!  …Although we doubt it.


But why dilly dally with speculation?  Let’s just look at the facts.  We’re gonna pull out and slap our awesome year on the table so you can measure it against yours, and then we will all know for sure that the Rast’s 2014 was the biggest, thickest, most awesomest family accomplishment year EVER!  (…And by the charitably inclusive term “we” we are referring of course to all of those less fortunate well intended acquaintances of ours whom we are trying to inspire here.)


For beginners, there was our annual late January private family dinner with President Barack Obama!  As well as his family, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Congressional leadership, Angelina Jolie, Bono, and those lovable first family canine funsters, Bo and Sunny.  What a blast, and as always, we appreciate the opportunity, Mr. President, to lend you our ear and offer our advisements.  We know you take them to heart.  Thank you for the hospitality, and a big thank you to your pilots for making those rides on the Presidential helicopter so much FUN!!!


Moving on, it was February that brought the next Rast Family highlight…Our annual winter school vacation getaway!  It was the BEST EVER!!!  Which, to be honest, came as a welcomed surprise, as this time we thought  circumstances would force us to scale back on our mid-winter Vay-Kay.


Not for financial reasons, mind you.  (Both Elyse and I got HUGE salary bumps again this year!)  But because of so many gosh-darn scheduling commitments in Europe!  Seems that much to our chagrin, (and pride, of course!) both of our children were separately obliged to appear at special award dinners given in their honor in France and Great Britain respectively:  Mark Jr., for his ground breaking work gene mapping the root causes of Franco body odor, and Elyse Jr., for her brilliant translation of the Dead Sea Scrolls into an award winning musical comedy featuring Dame Judith Dench, Hugh Grant,  Sir Ian McKellen, Jeanette McCurdy, and Pitbull.  (And oh-by-the-way, a big "thank you" shout out of appreciation goes to the senior administrators at both our kids schools.  You guys are the best!  Thanks for the attendance flexibility and thanks for remembering that those healthy year end donations we always make to our favorite prep schools are 100% voluntary!)


March came in like a lamb this year, but definitely went out like a lion...a lion who's been nailed with .444 grains of high powered ammo!  Yep, you guessed it.  Elyse bagged her second lion (in 3 years!!!) and was definitely the star the annual mid-March Rast Family African Safari and Relief Mission.  Always a thrill ride, this years trip was one of our most memorable ever.  Each of us managed to shoot an animal and meet an African person.  In my case, it was two birds with one stone as an errant shot of mine ricocheted off the horn of an angry rhinoceros (apparently they get angry when they’re drugged.) and into the foot of our guide, Henry Mutombo.  Henry and I had a remarkable conversation while waiting for the medics, and I'll never forget him, how well he spoke English, or how much he bled.  I promised myself that from now on I'll always make an effort to get to know my guides before I accidentally shoot them.  As usual, we closed out our journey on a charitable note, handing out copies of Suze Orman's "The Courage To Be Rich” directly through the windows of our Land Rover to residents of the many colorful villages we passed through on our way to the airport.  We wish you could have seen the looks of astonishment on their faces!  All the more impressive this year as, for some reason, many were wearing surgical masks.


April and May were a blur of activity!  For my part I kicked off the month of April (literally) by capturing yet another full-contact Tae Kwon Do National title (my fourth in in six years!), this time competing in a full leg cast, a result of an unfortunate spill I suffered while helicopter snowboarding the previous week in Northern Spain.  As has become her annual routine, Elyse spent the arrival of Spring dividing her energies between planting and nurturing her award winning two-acre pesticide free flower garden (She spent hours out there!), and piloting her brand new Tesla SUV around town shuttling the kids between their endless soccer/basketball/lacrosse/field hockey/track/tennis/bowling/archery/gymnastics/wrestling/bocce/geo-caching/bass fishing/cock fighting/fencing/Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu matches.  She did all this while some how finding the time to endlessly grow her burgeoning pilates/frozen yogurt franchise, “FroGa".   As has been our tradition since we started dating, we once again jointly spent Patriots Day running the Boston Marathon (backwards in three legged hop-sack) and raised more than $1.6 million dollars for our favorite charity, Kittens Without Borders.  Sadly we’ve still never placed higher than 14th.  We’re determined to fix that, we promise.


May moved along briskly.  Our kitties, Pitter and Patter, were profiled and featured on the cover of Kittens Without Borders Magazine.  Both kids were fast tracked into acceptance at Harvard Medical School, which came as a real surprise to all of us as they were 11 and 13 years old respectively and neither had bothered to apply.  By the end of the month each had completed their first semester and found internships.  As Memorial Day approached we realized that once again we’d neglected to make any holiday plans.  On a whim, Elyse bought a car, bought a helmet, fired the maid, threw together a team, found a sponsor (FroGa), and before we knew it, we’d captured a respectable fourth place at Indy.  Not bad, eh?


Summer arrived and it was time to throttle back.  Elyse found a paramour, I went on a two-week New England spree-kill, and for the kids it was off to camp.  And by camp, I mean space camp.  And by space camp I mean they actually spent June on The International Space Lab, where apparently their command of Russian, Mandarin, and the intricacies of astrophysics all came into a lot of good use.


July and August found everyone firmly locked into mellow mode, a blessed state much appreciated by all of us.  Despite initial misgivings we found that selling off our overseas summer homes was really for the family best.  So many taxes, so many foreigners, ...who needs the headaches???  Instead we stayed domestic and treated ourselves to a little Rast family “me” time in Chilmark, Bridgehampton, Malibu, and Sonoma.  Delicious!


Tanned and refreshed we embraced the crisp clean winds of autumn and eagerly launched ourselves into a another busy harvest season of attitude, effort, and accomplishment.  One of us got some “work” done.  ;)


In late September, Mark Jr. completed his surgical residency at John Hopkins and celebrated his fourteenth birthday by performing his first heart transplant.  (…First “successful” that is.  For Junior, it turns out, #3 was the charm.  ...And to the Kawalskis and the Scheckmen families, again we offer our condolences.)


In October, for the first time ever, all four of us simultaneously landed books on the New York Times Bestseller List.  And that was just week 1!  Elyse gave her dissertation for her 7th PHD in week 2, and by mid-month Elyse Jr. was wrapping up her studies when suddenly she threw us all a curve by announcing that after completing her residency obligations at the Mayo Clinic, she would be launching yet another remarkable career path, this time by enrolling in Rabbinical school!  Oy vey, these kids!!!


November was all work and no play, so when it finally arrived, we truly enjoyed taking a break for our annual Thanksgiving extravaganza.  Hopefully you were one of our 1800+ guests!  Once again we rented the historical Plimoth Plantation in its entirety, and really put it through its paces. We are thrilled that it has become such a huge holiday tradition and boon to the local economy.   A hearty “Thanks” to the 227 historical re-enactment performers we employ one day every year as our servers, cooks, valets and security team.  And to all the ones who portrayed Indians wrapped in chickenpox contaminated blankets, enjoy those additional $5 gift cards, Kemosabes!


Then of course, there arrived December!  Such a festive time, with so many silly religious affiliations and so many different ways we found to binge!  To many ways to list, actually, so instead of us wasting your time ticking off all the things we achieved materially, we thought it would be better here if the Rast clan took a few moments of reflection to look back on the year gone by, and share individually, in our own words, what deep in our hearts, we felt were our own most inspirational achievements.


First up:


Mark Jr.--“I know most folks are expecting me to talk about the fact that I discovered a new planet while at camp this summer, but honestly that was nothing compared to the thrill I got from delivering a set of conjoined triplets in a stalled elevator while attending a Bar Mitzvah at the Waldorf in NYC.  And I still made it in time to help carry the chair!”


Elyse Jr.--“Well, being nominated for a Pulitzer certainly was nice, but I think the topper was being the solo guest on a one-hour edition of Charlie Rose.  He’s a great interviewer, very compelling, and I really felt like he was prepared.  He got me, you know?  Also, I thought he would smell bad, but he didn’t.” 


Mommy--“I guess, probably, it was going out for pizza with Pope Francis.  That’s probably not something that will be repeated.  And considering how much beer and pizza he consumed, that’s probably a good thing.  But beyond that, as always, it was spending so much wonderful time with my precious family, and of course all the wonderful new passionate friendships that blossomed this year.  In particular, the one with my new gardner, Hector.   He really taught me the value of proper irrigation.  ;)  See you and your hose in the Spring, Señor Hector!” 


Daddy--“Oh, I don’t know.  Part of me wants to brag about a lot of things (Tripling our net worth, avoiding the whole Uber mess, etc.), but that seems redundant.  I’m sure most of you have Googled us plenty of times already in the past year., and anyway, you all know that bragging is not something we like to do in this family.  So instead I’m just going to tell you how much you all mean to all of us, and how much we hope that in 2015, things turn out better for you.


Thanks for all your support, folks, and have a Happy New Year!


Sincerely,

Mark, Elyse, Mark Jr.. Elyse Jr., Pitter and Patter.
















©  2014 James Mark Rast

Somewhere, out there, is a house.  In that house are some stairs.  Up those stairs is a door.  Behind that door is a room.  And in that room are some drums.  Big, expensive, shiny and loud drums.  They are my drums.


The drums are not new.  The drums are not old.  The drums are drums that have been broken in just right.  They have the look and feel and presence of drums that have been around.  They have a history.


They know me, these drums.  They know what I am and what I want, and they know what I like.  They know what I am trying to do when I play them.  And they respond.


They know me, my drums.  Sometimes we get along.  Sometimes we don't.  But they always let me know.  They always let me try.  


There are things in my life that only my drums know about.  Secrets I have never been able to share.  Words I have never been able to speak.  Rhythms of fear and anger and passion and joy, of sorrow and suffering and love and loneliness, and only my drums can give voice to these things.  Only my drums can cry.


And in this room at the top of these stairs, there is a wall made of glass.  A wall made of sand and fire.  A wall made of windows and pane.  And outside these windows, is a view.


And this is my view is of many things.  It is of an ocean that has risen.  It is of a courtyard full of shame.  It is of a canyon of concrete and steel and granite and sand where a hundred million stories move to the rhythms that are coming from my drums.  And it is of a single white tree, standing anonymous and fast against the frustrated blade of a lover’s knife.  Steel into sap.  Initials into skin.  Tempered steel, tempered hearts, tempered violence.  Searching for a permanence.  Looking for a faith.  The view is of the fluid.  It is of a movement of demand.  It is a creation of the rhythms.


And sometimes this room is just a clean blank slate, a thought space that has no shape, a simple place to sit and play.  Good stuff.  Funk rhythms.  James Brown.  James Brown, again.  Surf pop wired with tremblo.  Early Ventures.  Kitschy pop.  Animals and Yardbirds and Hermits and Kinks.  Little Latin Lupe De Lu, and then some soul, some K.C. jump and maybe a little blues.  Bloodstreams full of cocaine.  Joints that ache and creak.  Charley Horses and shin cramps that stiffen to a 4/4 beat.  Ice cold beer and coffee.  Hot sulfur mixed with weed.  Palmer, Toussaint, The Dead, Boz Scaggs, perhaps some Little Feat.


The view has turned sublime now.  The view is what I'm sure, the eyes of a blind man would ask for, if given half the words.  Half the words I've thrown away describing foolish things, like love and love and faith and trust, and trusting trusting girls.


The view is of the love that holds me.  The one who never comes.  The one whose eyes control.  


My soul, whose touch I can't explain.


I've spent a lifetime in four short years, fighting off the pain.  Fighting off the loneliness.  Sleeping with my shame.  Suppressing fear.  Ingesting pride.  Squeezing from my weary heart, a bleach of faith to stem the stain. 


Consumed by the silence of love denied, swallowed in the swirl of dark thoughts, dark currents, dark worlds, my view is only upwards now, of the drums that drive my world.


These are good drums, I’ve set on fire here.  Real drums, not junk, no toys.  They know my limits.  They know my style.  They know what I contain.  They know what I can do with wood, and skin and steel and tear. These are good drums, I’ve set on fire here.  They always let me try.


And these drums are in a room now, in a house somewhere, at the top of a set of stairs.  

Someday I will reclaim them.


Someday, again, I’ll play.    






© 2014 Mark Rast 

Sometimes there are answers that can only be seen through the eyes of a stranger.  Sometimes, only through the eyes of a child.


Sometimes the solutions are right there, right there at our feet.  Sometimes the answers are refreshingly simple, remarkably available.  Sometimes the tools are comedically transparent, scattered all about us.  Ironic iconic stumbling blocks lying there, on the ground, waiting for us to merely reach down, pick them up, and put them to use.


Sometimes it’s just a matter of kicking a ball, and sometimes it’s just a matter of watching a ball get kicked.


And sometimes it can be just a blend of both.  


Depends on the ball.  


Depends on the person.  


Take me, for instance.


Like most people, I am someone who trudges through life, nose to the grindstone, ass in a sling, determined to be proud but often beaten down, wondering in my head, if not out loud, “ How come?  Why me?  When will I ever get the break?  When will I ever know the point to all this?  When will I ever not feel so afraid of my world?  How can I ever not feel so alone?”  


Well, recently, …a couple good answers rolled my way.  Not exactly the “full set/Encyclopedia Britannica” versions.  But a couple of good clues none-the-less.


One arrived in the early hours of a mid-week business trip when, with travel weary eyes and in a most improbable venue, I found myself included in an ad hoc audience of anxious strangers, gathered to watch a most remarkable moment in American cultural history:  The 2010 World Cup match up of USA vs Algeria.


It was the Seattle airport, SeaTac, Terminal C.  There, squinting through the morning’s glare with a few thousand other travelers, I found myself standing on tiptoes, ...in a bar, no less, ......awake, alert and utterly transfixed by a game of soccer.  


...And it was extraordinary.



The atmosphere was electric.  Every video screen in the building was tuned to one image, and every pair of eyes was upturned toward the same.  As the game clock ticked down, arriving passengers sprinted from their planes, hunting the nearest scrum that indicated standing room access to a viewable screen.  People just clearing security hurried along with bags and belts and shoes in their hands.  Golf carts and wheel chairs pulled up, Red capped porters and white haired passengers all craned their necks for a glimpse.  Viewing lanes were honored.  Conversations erupted spontaneously.  Total strangers spoke as if old friends.  Elderly, leisurely, young, rich, poor.  Enlightened, informed, impaired, ignorant, and even the just plain dumb, all seized the rare moment, and a community took shape in mere minutes, and the information flowed like wine.  “No score...zero zero...just ten minutes left.  Oh my God, can we do this?  Can we???  Why not?  Sure we can!”  


Everyone believed.  


Everyone but the clock.  


The clock kept ticking down.


And then it happened.


A shot, a rebound, a shot, a rebound, the ball at his feet and then Landon Donovan delivered the miracle that all of us had been hoping for.  The unlikely, unexpected, underestimated underdog extra effort that put a ball in a net, that crushed a preconception, and that put the world on notice...This is us.  We’re Americans.  We-don’t-give-up.


And if the mood in that building had been electric before, it had now become nuclear.  All down the line, gate areas erupted with shouts and whoops and whistles of joy.  Fists pumped the air and strangers high-fived and hugs and grins filled the room wall to wall.  And for that one minute, …or ten, …or forever perhaps, most everyone in that room had become friends.  And for that minute, or ten, or forever perhaps, most everyone in that room, nearly all of whom had never understood the bonding power of that particular thing the rest of the world calls “football”, now shared one joyful thought:  “...Man oh man oh man, …World Cup Soccer.  It doesn’t get any better than that!”


And in other times, under other circumstances, I’d probably have thought so too.  


But not here.  


Not this time.  


Because I already knew different.  Because I’d already been shown the better.  With my own eyes I had seen something on a humble little soccer field in a low key little town, without a swirling graphic or beer ad or painted face or vuvuzela in sight.  And it was better.


Two weeks and two days prior, an eight year old boy, a kid who had no business being able to, did something that few who knew him ever expected, something even he didn’t know he could do,  something that was much, much harder and much much better.  A billion times better.  He’d stunned his teammates.  He’d stunned his parents.  He’d stunned himself.


He’d scored a goal.


After two, long, often times lonely seasons of just hoping, the boy got a break, took a shot, and scored a goal.


After two long seasons, came a random bounce, a ball at his feet, one more chance, and the courage to give it one more try.  And he scored a goal.


The kid, you see, is not what you would call athletically gifted.  


Not even a little.  


Or at all.  


A pile of laundry has more native athletic ability.  And that’s assuming this kid is wearing none of it.


Which is not to say that the kid was not a valuable member of his team.  He was.  In fact, every kid team in every sport should have a member just like him.  The kid who just wants to contribute.  The kid who just wants to belong.  The kid who tries so hard.  The kid who doesn’t give up.  


The kid scored a goal.


And what few people knew is that from the start the kid had the odds stacked against him, stacked in ways that are hard for most people to understand.  If he was blind they could see it, if he were deaf they’d be all ears.  If he was deformed or diseased or lame, they’d could at least have some reference, a tangible touchstone to gauge the difference between themselves and the boy.  But Aspergers, particularly at the borderline end of the spectrum,  can be insidious in that regard.  A complex and variable condition, it is culturally camouflaged and difficult to discern.  There are few clear indications, no black and white signs flashing “HERE” to point out the unseeable neural paths that spiral to frustrating dead ends.  Visible only are the ambiguous indicators that more closely resemble hints than symptoms.  Look for the clumsy kid, the one who cannot coordinate the neural messages necessary to catch a ball, swing a bat, or ride a bike.  Look for the isolated kid, the one who struggles to perceive, let alone process, social cues, and employ, let alone finesse, social skills.  The one who cannot make eye contact.  The one who wants to, but cannot figure out a way to join in.  The one who knows only the outside.  The one who goes through an entire school year invited only to one birthday party, and knows it.     The one who can count on one hand the classmates who accept the invitation to his.


The one you look at from the outside, and you know, there’s more in there than just a boy being shy.


That kid.


That kid kicked a soccer ball into a net, and he scored his first goal.  That kid stopped, trapped, turned, and kicked a ball into the net, ...and he scored his very first goal.  A purposeful, intentional, indisputable, didn’t just bounce off the back of his head, well aimed and well delivered shot on goal that went directly from foot, through air, into net.


And then there he stood  for one long, sweet, frozen, delicious, wonderfully focused moment, until his arms shot straight up in the air, extending it seemed, all the way into space as if reaching to contain his soaring hopes.  And he whirled in place, dark blue eyes grinning and laughing and searching the crowd, scanning the sidelines for the one whose eyes he knew had cared most, the eyes that he knew had most wanted to see.  


And there he found them, as big as his and a thousand times full the pride.  The luckiest eyes on the planet.  His Dad’s.


Along the sidelines teammates and other parents erupted in cheer, the goal’s significance in no way lost on those veteran attendees who had so generously shared two years of patience and support and encouragement, politely and quietly wishing that the poor kid could just catch a break.  Just one break.  


They knew the feeling.  They were parents.  They loved their kids, too.  They knew the what, even if they didn’t really know the why.


And so with a good swift kick, a few things became clearer and a few reassuring answers were found on both of those days, and the lessons re-learned, the best ones, the simple ones, the most gratifying ones, were re-learned best, by me.  


...That we’re rarely as alone as we think. 

...That the enormity of an accomplishment doesn’t depend on the enormity of it’s audience.

...That community exists all around us, connected by common needs and desires, not the least being the basic need to share a little hope.

...That the biggest returns come from the things we wish for others.

...That the things we believe will affect us, inspire us, direct us, ...the things we struggle to learn and the people we struggle to meet, often times provide fewer rewards than the things we stumble over everyday.  The simple things that are lying there before us. 


Lying there, ...right at our feet.





©  2010 J. Mark Rast

So I wandered into a scene the other day.  One of those elegant scenes that makes you feel lucky.  One of those ordinary scenes that makes you feel glad.  One of those subtle scenes that a playwright might spend months trying to craft, but never quite gets it right.  One of those sublime scenes that carries you through your day.  And like most great scenes, it started with a great location.


In this case, the location was the “Order Here” line at the Dunkin Donuts in West Newton square.  It was nine o’clock in the morning.  A crappy day was on the horizon.  In the parking lot, it was cars and cops and contractors and cold air.  In the store, the usual cast of characters.


At the counter stood the guy.  At a register, the gal.  And a dance had begun.


“How ya doin?”

“I’m doin good.  You?”

“…aaaa, you know.”

“Oh ya…I know.” she said.  The corners of her eyes crinkling with a smile.  “What can I getcha?”


At which point the guy unloaded a ridiculously long and complicated order.  Small black, no sugar.  Large black, six sugars.  Medium regular, but extra light.  Medium regular, not too light.  Medium regular, just regular,    Medium hazelnut, milk and two Sweet and Low.  Large iced coffee, skim milk and eight Splendas,  A coffee role.  A sweet roll (“Is that the same thing?”).  Two turkey sausage egg and cheese on a croissant role (“Does sauce come on that?”)  etc., etc.


Twists and turns and withs and withouts…And on and on and on it went.


All which would seem (for those who were in the line behind) like something that could turn into a nightmare.  


But it didn’t.


Instead, it was fun, and it was funny.  And, I’ll presume here,  it made a difference in the day of everybody who was involved.  


And that was thanks to the main characters, the leads in this play, who decided individually and then in partnership, to take a moment of their workday drudgery, and turn it into something lighthearted and warm, for the benefit of all.


The counter girl played her role perfectly.  She kept her cool and turned on her charm when the order started getting complicated.  Like many who work in service jobs, she had the look of the survivor, street wise and shrewd and long removed from any illusions about the fairness of life or what brought her here.  But she had too, a warmth in her eyes that couldn’t be contained.  She gently teased the customer about the complexity of his order and began to challenge his requests (“Are you sure you want that, hon?  You sound a little unsure.”  “Will six sandwiches be enough???  Maybe you should get a dozen.”  “Is this all for you, hon?  Is this going to be enough to get you through to lunch?”)  


In return, the guy, thick of neck and broad of shoulders, picked up his cues, and gave it back as good as he got.


HER: “You want a tray for these coffees?  
HIM: “Why?  Does that cost extra?  

HER:  “No.  I’m not trying to up-sell you.”
HIM: “Oh. you are so awesome.  I’m sorry.  I know this has all been very difficult for you.”  

HER: “It’s not difficult for me, hon…I’m just pressing buttons on the freakin register.  (pointing to her co-workers)  Those are the people who hate you.”
HIM:  “I know this seems like a lot but it’s just how my body works.”

HER: “So this really IS all for you?”
HIM: “Oh, ya.  Everyday.  Same thing.

HER: “Really?”
HIM: “No.”


Okay, so you had to be there.  But that’s exactly the point.  “There” is happening all around you, happening around us, all the time.  Little life gems to be observed and enjoyed.  Small little amusements, spiritual snacks that remind the amused how easy it is to appreciate another human being.


Because he we was already at the counter when I walked in, I never saw the customer guy’s face, but it really didn’t matter.  From the moment I stepped up behind him I knew who he was.  He was the fast food face of doom.  He was the morning guy, the guy with the list, scratched out on a scrap of lumber or a crumpled up piece of cardboard with a piece of chalk or a broken pen.  The same guy, times a thousand, that we’ve all been behind on our morning runs to Dunkies.  The designated delivery guy conscripted by his workmates to pick up the morning caffeine and the calories, …and the guy who can then expect to get nothing but abuse upon his return, for taking so long and getting it so wrong. 


But in this room, on this day, at least for a little while, he and his straight man partner behind the counter, were minor heroes.  They spared a handful of people a few moments of their sanity.  They gave us something, even just a little thing, to carry around and smile  about, all day long.  A little good will to pay forward, and to share.


There’s been a lot said and written this past year, and especially in these past few weeks, about “Boston Strong”… about how resilient we are here in Boston and about the toughness of our character and about the courage of our citizens.  And in truth, all those things should be talked about and should be celebrated because they are real and they are valid and they are worth remembering.


But when the media party is over, when the flyovers have all passed, when the smoke from all the fireworks has cleared, when the introductions in centerfield, and at midfield, and at center ice, go to commercial and then go to black, and then away, …we’ll all still be here.  


This week the outside world will look in on our world and think they are seeing Boston at it’s best.  But the truth is, the best can be seen everywhere here, all the time in all the little things we do for each other, everyday. Everyday things motivated by nothing more complicated than common decency.  Standing patiently in line, holding the door for a stranger, merging in traffic, clearing a hydrant, showing patience, showing compassion, showing tolerance.  That’s what makes Boston strong.


Sure, “Boston Strong” can be defined by courageous recoveries and armored cars and celebrity cops.


But sometimes, it can be just as proudly defined by things like neighborliness, and civility, and the effects of working stiffs helping each other get through their day with laugh.  Unsung and unseen, in small little places. 


Everyday places.


…Like a donut shop.





(c)  2014  Mark Rast 

FROM THE DESK OF:    Digby J. Haffenschtuker
                                         Welcoming Committee Chairman/Homeland Security Coordinator 
                                         SunnyDale Acres Planned Living Community/Phase 3


Dear New Resident:


Howdy!


Welcome to the neighborhood!


Here are the rules.


No drinking.  


Ha ha…just kidding, actually we all drink like fish around here, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, glub, glub, glub…so feel free to booze it up as much as you like.  All we ask is that you leave your empties neatly by the curb so we can pick through them for returnables.  Also, try to leave them out in an open container.  That helps the rest of us gauge your taste in liquor as well as your annual income.  Not that anybody here cares, big shot.


Next rule:  No pets.  


Ha HA!  Again I’m just kidding!  We love pets in this neighborhood.  Most of us have pit bulls.  You probably didn’t notice when you moved in, but the people next to you have goats.  The McManus family, down the street, are trying to raise pigs this year.  Jack and Nancy Vu had a python, but it strayed off (maybe you noticed the posters?)  The wife and I keep a cow in our garage.  Stop by if you like fresh milk, or if you ever just get the urge to squeeze a teat.


Rule number three:  No smoking.  Seriously.  We have a local ordinance.  No smoking.


Ha ha HA!!!!!  Again I’m just joking, new neighbor.  (Wow!  Are you ever gullible!)  Of course you can smoke!  You can smoke your little tar filled heart out.  If fact, if you ever run out of smokes, the guy who lives across the street from you usually has a huge selection available for sale in his garage, and his prices are amazing!  He’s also got a lot of other items, cameras, laptops, jewelry… so definitely stop by.  Just remember it’s cash only and he may want to pat you down for a wire.


By the way, what is it you do, anyway?  


I’m sorry.  That’s so rude.  Totally none of my business right now.  You’ve barely moved in and here I am being a nosy pest.  My apologies.


But you’re not a cop are you?


Okay, whatever you are, you’re welcome, and anyway, you are going to really like it here.  There are lots and lots and lots of really fun and interesting things to do here in the neighborhood.  There’s also a church up at the corner.  Stop by the rectory anytime and register with Monsignor O’Malley.


What’s that?  You’re what???


Oh…  


Well, that’s okay.  No problem.  In this neighborhood we pride ourselves on tolerance.  We welcome people of all backgrounds, all creeds and all religious denominations.  


Even yours.


In any event, let’s focus on something else besides your religious problems, like parties!  Hoo-HOO!  Neighborhood tradition has it that the new family (that’s you!) hosts a big move-in blowout bash no later than the first weekend after moving in.  So seeing as how it’s already Thursday, and around here we consider noon Friday as the official start of the weekend, you may want to start stocking up a little.  As I mentioned earlier, we like to drink.  Don’t fret about vittles, we all pitch in and bring potluck, so you don’t have to worry about cooking anything, except for the pig.  The pig is your job.  But don’t stress.  All you have to do is put a pig in the ground and rope off a part of your lawn for everybody to park their motorcycles and you’re all set.  By the way, if you don’t have a pig, check in with the McManus family down the street.  They may have one they’re trying to dump. 


Actually, come to think of it, there are a couple of other things you may want to do to prepare.  These are just minor suggestions, mind you.  You don’t have to follow them.  It’s your property.


First, if you have guns (and really, in this neighborhood, who doesn’t?), you’re going to want to make sure they’re properly stowed and secured.  However it’s not a bad idea to maybe just keep one or two stashed under a sofa cushion or tucked into your belt in case someone cops a “tude”.  


Know what I’m sayin?


Another thing you want to make sure of is, no cameras.  We got nothing against photography per se around here but until you get to know everybody a little better it’s probably best if you don’t go taking any pictures of your neighbors.  Some of them have some privacy issues that you don’t really need to know about at this point in time.  All that matters is that when it comes to snapshots, if you know what’s good for you, just don’t.


Once the party really gets going, the other thing you’re going to want to have handy is a lot of towels.  You’ll understand later.


Once you’ve fulfilled your party obligation, you and your surviving family members are totally welcome to jump into any of the fun, fun, fun activities that go on around here twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, because now you are one of us.  We own you.  


What do you like to do?  Bowling?  Tennis?  Pole dancing?  How about cage fighting?  No problem.  Even if your idea of a wild time is just a simple Sunday morning cockfight, we’ve got it all here on the block.  And don’t forget, bring the kids.


Let’s see…what else do you need to know…hmmm….


Okay, there’s a school somewhere up the street if you’ve got kids that are into that sort of thing.   The name escapes me, but if you just flag down a school bus they can probably give you the information you need.


If you need groceries, there’s a super market with a package store just down the way about twenty minutes that takes food stamps and Confederate script.  Good to know.  And if you’re a hunter or just somebody who likes to live off the land, you can always harvest the plentiful bounty of squirrels, possum, or any of the other distempered game vermin you can find infesting the trees and underbrush around your house.  All we ask is that if you go away on vacation, please clear your traps before you leave to help keep the buzzards down, and don’t go killing any snakes until you talk to the Vu’s.   


Let’s see, what else…….


Oh yeah, parking!


Obviously there is plenty of parking available here in SunnyDale Acres.  There are no parking meters and no parking restrictions.  As you can tell, we don’t live under a lot of rules around here.  This isn’t wartime Germany after all, although there is a guy down the street who likes to wear a German helmet while he rides around on his lawn mower.  (Don’t worry, Otto is harmless.  If he claims he’s annexed your lawn just ignore him.)


Garbage day is Tuesday, but we play that one pretty loose too.  Who is in or out of detox down at the DPW has a lot to do with how well the pick-up schedule is kept.  Your best bet is to just put your trash out there if front of your house whenever it’s comfortable for you, and if it starts getting out of hand, just burn it.


By the way, our Fire Department is top notch, so no worries there.  As long as their phones are working (which is most of the time) you will not find a horse drawn fire wagon with a faster response time.  For medical emergencies we usually just call Johnsons Funeral Home.  We find it saves time.


Ooops!  Almost forgot.  We do have a neighborhood volunteer security patrol.  They’re armed.  If you go out after dark, make sure to carry some ID.  You may also want to make sure you’ve always got some extra cash on you.


So that’s about it.  There’s not much else you really need to know.  You’ve chosen a wonderful neighborhood full of wonderful interesting people, most of whom are relatively safe.  We hope that you enjoy your stay here, however brief, and we hope you’ll let us make you feel like part of our big happy family.  


So kick back, relax, keep an eye open for pythons…


And welcome to the neighborhood!


Sincerely,



Digby J. Haffenschtuker







© 2014 Mark Rast

Dear Santa:

Just a quick note...

I realize you are quite busy, what with the endless labor disputes, the constant Polar Bear attacks, complying with ObamaCare, and figuring out what the fuck to do about the Beyonce album drop, etc., etc.  So let me just go ahead and apologize in advance for disrupting your operation at this late hour.

However, as the clock ticks down on this Christmas Eve, I was, never-the-less hoping you could take just a few Santa moments to look over the list I have prepared for you below.  This list is a short catalog of items that, over the years. have appeared prominently on my personal wish lists, but, sadly, have never appeared under my tree.

Gifts that never came.

Lonely yuletide tears.

This haunts me.

Mind you, Santa, I am not claiming hardship here, and I am not complaining here, and I am not pointing any fingers.  I am merely asking a favor.

You see, Santa, I am a realist, ...as I’m sure both you and your staff of snow fairies and magical elves and flying reindeer are all keenly aware.  Keeping that in mind, I just want you to know that I am not seeking any special consideration here.  I’m simply asking that this year you give that list of mine one extra check, to make sure there isn’t anything under my name that has  somehow been overlooked. 

It is possible.  Deer shit happens.

So here then, is my list.  A list of bitter disappointments from Christmas mornings gone by.  And again, I’m not going down this road to depress you.  If my goal was to depress you, I’d be pointing out that according to even the most conservative projections, your homeland will be melted by 2024, and that chronic obesity is a killer.  

No, my goal is to simply restate my case regarding a few modest requests that over the years apparently were either misunderstood, misplaced, or have slipped your effin' elfin Alzheimer mind altogether.  To that end I’ve also added a few clarifying comments.

So, just to remind you, Claus, ...the following Rast Christmas wishes are still outstanding!

These are:

 #1--A medium sized thermonuclear weapon.  (I’m sensing you've been uncomfortable with this.  I assure you, I only want it for defensive purposes.  My wife is Jewish.)

#2--Peace On Earth.  (LOL Just kidding.  I threw this in for laughs.  I know you can ‘t do this.  But it does underscore request #1.)

#3--A measurably larger Johnson.  (I’ve included the term “measurably” here, because several years ago, after making this request, I experienced several days of odd swelling that later turned out to be related to a UTI.  ...I hope this wasn’t your idea of a joke.)

#4--A pony.  (Please note I’ve modified this request.  I felt you might have been uncomfortable with my previous request for a “shaved” pony.  I think you may have been reading too much into this.  I wish you weren’t so judgmental.)

#5--A full disclosure of your “naughty” list regarding verifiable abusers of PEDs in Major League Baseball.  (Please don’t worry.  I’ve no agenda here.  I'm not into the bookies.  I’m just curious, and your tell-tale dirty secrets are safe with me, just like they are with the mainstream media...and I don't even work for a news outlet owned by a baseball team.  Not that releasing such info would ever change anything anyway.  Goddamn players union!)

#6--The name of a plumber who will actually keep his appointments.  (LOL again!  Right?  This one is even more ridiculous than #2!)

#7--A romantic dinner with sex-kitten Ann-Margret.  (As you can see, some of these requests go back pretty far.)

#8--A original edition Lawn Darts game.  (I'm not talking the modern day sissy version that uses soft-plastic and bean bags.  I'm talking the steel-shaft, pointy-ended, skull puncturing darts of death that I remember from my youth.  But don't worry about me.  There's a kid in my neighborhood I want to regift these to.)  

#9--Pubic hair.  (I sent you this one when I was 12.  ...Dude!  Is this ever going to happen?  I’m already bald!)

#10--A Volkswagen Thing.  (You know..  The car?  I realize that coming up with an automobile that is thirty years out of production might pose a challenge for you, but making miracles come true is your job.  And for yours truly,  re-requesting it is a no-brainer.  A cheaply made German import that just happens to look like a WWII Nazi staff car???  Screw political correctness.  I grew up watching Hogan's Heroes.  I want one!)

Finally, please do not stress too much about this list, or the fact that it actually only represents a fraction of my life's disappointments.  I’m not looking for 100% fulfillment from the North Pole crew, ...although I’d like to point out that the way things are going, a few more years of performance like yours and little kids will be sending their Christmas lists directly to Jeff Bezos.  (Hello?!?  ...Rudolph the Red Nosed Drone????!!!!)

In the meantime, Merry Christmas, Big Man.  Ho Ho Ho, have a good holiday, fly safe, and assuming you've reconciled, (hey...I hear things) send my regards to the missus.

Yours truly,

Little Markie Rast.

P.S. By the way, don't pay any attention to that anti-materialist Pope Francis and his socialist spew.  Just bring us the goods!!! 

©  2013  J. Mark Rast

Bullying in schools has long been a problem in the U.S.

In recent years however, bullying has reached levels that can only be described as epidemic.  As a result, more and more school systems have begun implementing anti-bullying awareness programs to stem the rising tide of bullying behavior.  Predictably, more and more research on the topic has resulted as well, uncovering some surprising results.  Playgrounds, it seems, are not the only places where the bullying epidemic is out of control.

Milo Fistmeister is a social scientist who has devoted his life to studying the bullying issue since he was pantsed in the middle of a crowded Waffle House in Klingle, Wisconsin while on a date with his cousin one late night in the winter of 1989.  It was an experience he says, that forever changed him.  For him, the cost of bullying isn’t just academic, ...it is personal.

We caught up with Dr. Fistmeister in Boston during a recent book signing to promote the recent publication of his first novel, “Somebody Your Own Size”.


K--Before we begin I just want to apologize for not having been able to completely finish your wonderful book in time for this interview.  I hope you can forgive me.

MF--You haven’t read it?  Are you fucking kidding me?

K--Well not the whole thing.  I skimmed through it a little on the bus this morning, but it was hard because, you know, rush hour, the type was kind of small and I was holding my latte and had to stand and what with the stopping and going it became quite an ordeal not succumbing to motion sickness and...

MF--Oh this is great.  Fucking awesome.  I’m so sorry my life’s work almost made you barf.  I would have thought you might have read it beforehand, but obviously that was too much to ask.

K--I am sorry.  Part of it is fatigue.  I was up all night taking care of my mother.  She’s dying of cancer.  It’s just when I try to read in a moving vehicle...

MF--You poor dear.

K--I apologize.

MF--...........Pussy.

K--I feel like we’re getting off track a little.

MF--(snorts derisively)....uh, yuh!

K--So... the classic cliche of a bully would be the oversized kid in the schoolyard, intimidating the undersized kid wearing glasses, usually in front of his classmates, twisting his arm up behind his back, pressing his face into the chain link fence while he helps himself to the kids lunch.

MF--Yeah.  The cliche classic.  We call that “The Butch”.

K--How common is that?

MF--Very.  Obviously.  That’s why it’s a cliche.  I’m guessing it’s something you know all too well, having been on the losing end of it so often.  If you hear the word recess, do you start to sweat?

K--But your research has turned up areas where bullying was never known about or even suspected?

MF--Yes.

K--Can you give us some examples?

MF--You sure you’re okay?  I don’t want you to spew.

K--I’m fine.

MF--So the world is always looking for bullies in all the expected places, like the aforementioned schoolyard, but we’ve found them in places where nobody was looking.  It’s not just kids on playgrounds, and it’s not just the workplace.

K--For instance?

MF--Petting zoos.

K--I’m sorry................petting zoos?  Kid’s bullying each other at petting zoos?

MF--Not kids.  The animals.

K--Really?

MF--No shit.

K--That’s shocking.

MF--I know, right?  But it’s true.  In the petting zoo world there is a real pecking order...literally.  Particularly amongst the fowl.  And with the goats and lambs, sure they look all fuzzy and soft, but a lot of them are basically sadists.  It’s often the bigger animals, but not always.  The little ones are sometimes the worst.

K--You mean they’re physically bullies?  Like they push the other animals out of the way when people want to pet?

MF--Not likely.  In fact they hate getting petted.  They think it’s creepy.  It’s a lot more subtle than that.  It’s all about farm-cred.  There’s a lot of cruel demeaning bleating about the size of hooves, or the nap of the wool, or genetic origins.  It matters if you were bred or born by accident or worse of all, cloned.  Did you know Dolly the Sheep killed herself?  There’s little worse apparently, than being a rescue goat.....except being a cloned rescue goat.
 
K--Not even, a “Scape-goat”?

MF--(blank stare)

K--....sorry.

MF--Our research looked into the histories of underachieving goats.  We  found a lot of esteem issues.

K--I had no idea.

MF--Of course not.  You don’t speak goat, you stupid shit.

K--What other surprises have you found?

MF--Convents.

K--You mean “conventions”, right, ....... or ”convenes”......?  Surely you don’t mean....

MF--Convents.  Nuns.  Dried out old hags walking around in robes.

K--Dear God!

MF--Nuns are some of the cruelest most vicious animals in the human jungle.  That’s no surprise.  Look what they did to Pat Buchanan.  But what no one has ever bothered to look for, ...is what they do to each other.

K--Physical bullying?

MF--Certainly, yes.  Tripping, purple nerples, half-nelsons, ...noogies.  But far more insidious is the deeply layered institutionalized culture of mental cruelty.  Of course the ones who suffer the most are the usual ones....Novitates fresh off the bus, the small, the obese...anybody with B.O. or who looks or sounds a little different.
 
K--That’s hard to do when you’re all wearing head-to-toe habits.

MF--Exactly!  So they put you under their bi-focal microscope and look for anything, anything at all to use as a weapon;  What you’ve got on your playlist (it better be Creed), if you’re wearing the “right” designer habit, the length of your rosary beads, etc.  That sort of thing.  Lord help you if you’ve got an overbite, or a mole on your nose.  Worst of all is what goes on in the showers.  Brutal.

K--Who would have ever thought?  Fascinating!

MF--...You like thinking about wet nuns, do ya?

K--But it sounds like there are even worse examples of bullies?

MF--Well, it’s hard to quantify of course, but to me, the most startling discovery, the most disturbing...at least that I can discuss here..........pre-natal bullying.

K--PRE-NATAL BULLYING???

MF--It’s true.

K--It seems so far fetched.

MF--Like your chances of ever satisfying a partner.  But unlike your situation, this is only partly speculative.  Much has been proven and verified scientifically.

K--Please share.

MF--Ten years ago, in a study launched under a grant funded by the American Lubrication Research Council, The National Association of Grocers, The Department of Homeland Security, and Wayne Gretzky----(don’t ask)----a team of twenty-five researchers, plus one rich guy who gave us a lot of money just to hang around our lab, began collecting data.  A test group was assembled comprised of 200 women in late term pregnancies, all of whom were carrying twins.

K--What was the first thing you discovered?

MF--That a lot of women in the eighth month of their pregnancy...when they learn that they’re having twins...they tend to freak out.

K--They didn’t know?

MF--Hell, half of them didn’t even know they were pregnant.  Obesity is a real problem in America.

K--........Okay......So returning to the pre-natal bullying; What did you find?

MF--That it’s remarkably--even shockingly, prevalent.  And the behavior patterns are eerily familiar.  It always seems to come down to the bigger fetus picking on the smaller; the strong vs the weak...doing things like inutero half-nelsons, amnio-noogies, and a lot of  kicking.  Parents naively think those kicks are just fetal growing pains, when actually it’s one fetus shaking down the other one for it’s nutrients.  Dominance depends on who has the lighter amnio fluid, whose heartbeat shows up first on the ultrasound, and who has the longer umbilical cord.  Size evidently matters.

K--Wow.  How did you make these findings?

MF--Empirically.  You know...trial and error.  Sometimes we’d turn on the ultrasound and just start screwing around.  One day we took turns slapping the mothers stomachs with a spatula.  Another time we fed the moms a bunch of sneezing powder and then placed trays of ice cubes on their abdomens,   Once, in the middle of the night, we woke a bunch of them up and then taped speakers to their bellies and then played a bunch of old Andrew Dice Clay recordings really, really loud.  Then this other time we found a garbage bag full of old needles and we.......

K--Professor Fistmeister, I believe you’re making fun of me.

MF--...doi! ...doi!  ...doi!

K--And I think you’re behaving very unprofessionally.

MF--I know you are.  Now what about me?

K--And I don’t think you’re being nice.

MF--Wait.  There’s something on your tie.

K--Please.

MF--Hold on.  Is that something on your breast pocket?

K--And I think you should stop.

MF--Oh yeah?  And who’s gonna make me?

K--(...sigh)  Any final words?

MF--Buy my book, jerkface, or it’s wedgie time.





©  2013  J. Mark Rast