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My Life As a Middle Aged Tennis Bum

Tony Moschetto — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 16:25:29 GMT

I think I spend more time thinking about tennis than actually playing it. A ratio I would like to change as soon as possible. If dreaming were a job, I'd be a millionaire, maybe even a billionaire. I try and get tennis partners, you can never have enough, but schedule seems to be an issue. Not too many people have the same schedule as I do. I can play anytime during the day, mornings, mid-mornings, lunch time, after lunch and late afternoon. The only time I can't play is mid afternoon. That's when tennis practice for the Men's team is. I spend most the time just watching, analyzing and giving advice, hoping not to sound inane like, “Your racquet face was facing that way, that's why the ball went there.” Or, “Try doing something with the return next time.” I stand there and watch, arms folded in the classic coaching pose, trying to stay focused and not letting my mind wander. I think of what I would do in their playing situations, “Would I make that volley? Could I return that serve? I need to be able to compete at their level”, I say to myself. I think about my game.

I made a breakthrough of sorts last week. It's not a major thing, almost a remembrance of what I once already knew, really, but I was excited nonetheless. I often tell the people I coach to hit “quality shots” and to hit “your ball”. What I mean is, hit a proper tennis stroke at a certain speed and at a certain depth that you know that you can hit all day. If you can do this, these shots become highly effective. I experienced this hitting last week. I know it sounds simple but I haven't been able to do it until now, due to, my opinion, the lack of a forehand. My newfound confidence, in my forehand, has sparked my backhand and now, my ground strokes are effective once again. I used to do this when I was in my prime but I can't believe how I had forgotten the feeling.

I'm just shy of challenging one of the young chaps on the team to test out my findings. Instead, I feel like the ugly girl at a high school dance, wishing and waiting someone would ask me to dance. In this case, hoping someone wants to hit, do some drills and extra work after practice. Or, even play out points. It never happens. I can't help but feel like I'm missing a major opportunity here. It is often said by many, if you want to improve your game find someone that is better than you. Hitting with someone better, should in essence, raise the level of your game. They say. They don't tell you that someone better, someone more accomplished, seasoned, someone with outstanding strokes doesn't want to hit with you. And why would they? Those persons probably have more than enough people to hit with, equals if you will. That's the biggest problem I'm having right now. I'm in between. I'm trying to find quality people to hit with, to train with but it's almost impossible. Perhaps next season they will seek me out to hit.

I'm only a month and a half from the biggest tournament/challenge of my life. The question isn't will I get beat, it's how bad will I get beat? I'm hoping to battle and stay on the court as long as I can. I'll liken my match to the scene in the movie, “300” when the dude, blood lust in his eyes, jumps into a group of enemies. He gets stabbed right away but before he dies takes out 30 of them. That's how I want to go out. Or, if I have any luck, I'll draw another middle aged tennis bum. We'll have a great match. After it's over the loser will joke to the winner how they now have to play the #1 seed. I hope it's me.

My Life As a Middle Aged Tennis Bum

Tony Moschetto — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 16:54:51 GMT

It was like a flaming arrow through the heart, a searing remark spoken by another person, confirmation of my abilities and where I'm at in my tennis career. A product of my age? Probably. Reality has yet to sink in, I refuse to feel the sting of it. Am I nuts? Why am I such an optimist? My optimism is making me look bad. My pride and ego are pushing me aside, wanting a piece of anyone that steps in front of me on the tennis court. When pride and ego are combined they're uncontrollable and remind me of that character on Seinfeld, Izzy Mandelbaum (played by Lloyd Bridges) who hated to lose, always challenging Jerry saying, “You think you're better than me?”

I got hired as an assistant coach for a college team in late January. I'd be coaching both the men's and women's teams. I was excited, because it was a different opportunity, a challenge of sorts. It would be college, higher education, the student athletes would be more intense and dedicated to the sport. They would want to be there. A distinct contrast from the high school game, which I had enough of. It was on to bigger and better things as I saw it.

It couldn't have come at a better time. Most of all, it was totally unexpected. I had applied and had forgotten about it. There were so many times I applied for assistant coaching jobs and would sit around waiting for responses. The waiting drove me crazy. This time I put it out of my mind as soon as I applied.

I was in Florida in early January working on my forehand with my coach. It was a week of intense training and it felt great. Finally, I started truly understanding the stroke. I could feel, in my body, the different stages of the swing. Up until that week in January I had been putting all the emphasis on the finish, the end point of the stroke, if you will. Also, the point where I started my swing had the wrong emphasis as well. This time, focus was put on the bottom of the swing, the place where you get the power from. It's the energy point just before the ball is struck. It made a world of difference focusing on that aspect. The path of swing is also different, it's more level, far less steep of a swing I was doing before. For the first time in over twenty years I felt like I was back. My confidence had returned. It felt like the days when I was younger and how I hit the ball when I was at my best. In my estimation, the work I did in Florida, paid instant dividends, which, what I was hoping to achieve when I went down there. I know, I still have much work to do, but it feels so friggin' good. Hence, my goal of revenge and to beat someone I have no right beating.

Working at the college may have been the stroke of luck I had been waiting for. Being around young players with a high level ability has really inspired me and could perhaps aid me in my quest. You see, the major problem that a tennis player faces, mainly me, is finding someone to hit with. Another hurdle, finding someone slightly above your ability. They say, if you want to improve your game, find someone better to hit with. Hitting with someone better should, in essence, raise the level of your game.

But why, someone with outstanding strokes, more accomplished, more seasoned and/or younger would want to hit with me? I thought I may have solved that problem when I got hired to coach at the university.

At the beginning, most of the time, I felt like a stooge. I was tentative and meek, but as the weeks have gone on I've began to feel comfortable and confident. All I want is the guys to want to hit with me, hoping they'd benefit in some way. I thought I was doing good until yesterday, feeling like I had made strides. I began to think that was happening, until yesterday. After practice, one of the better boys said, “You know if you ever want to hit...” I'm thinking, here it comes, my day, the respect, I'm not that bad after all, these young lads think I'm equal to the task, “...you could hit with my dad. He's your level. He's 53...” That's all I heard. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Maybe I'm not who I used to be, but I'm going to recapture my youth one way or another. My inner Izzy Mandelbaum took over. This kid obviously thinks he's better than me.

My Life As a Middle Aged Tennis Bum- Revenge

Tony Moschetto — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 05:21:32 GMT

I love June, the month. Ah, June, the bridge between spring and summer. The trees will be in full bloom, the grass will be ready to be cut and that smell will be in the air. It is a nice smell and I'm not talking about fresh begonias, I'm talking about, revenge. Hee hee, ha ha, hoo hoo.

It's quite funny. In fact yesterday, I was just thinking about what my motivation was for this mighty quest for glory on the tennis court. Why do I want to become great at tennis? The answer is simple and like anything in life: I just want to become better. I want to be the best that I can be, it's that easy. I want to be the best player, the best coach, the best teacher etc...I just want to improve and become better at what I do as a tennis person. That, and revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge.

Yes, it's true. Not only do I want to play great tennis and be able to compete at the highest level possible but I want to avenge some painful losses that I've suffered to certain individuals over the past year or two. I know, I should let it go and move on but I can't. It's unfinished business as far as I'm concerned and it needs to be addressed. Vengeance is the lifeblood of competition, it's the battle cry of warriors, both of past and present and it is my battle cry. June will be here soon enough, then my summer of revenge will begin.

The necessary steps are being taken and the preparation has begun. My training is beginning slowly but hopefully in the next couple of weeks I'll be able to take it up a notch. There will be more on the steps I've taken to recapture my greatness in future blogs, I assure you. And, make no doubt, mark my words, write it in blood, my game will be up to snuff come June, but now I'd like to explain how I want the revenge to go down.

I was inspired partly from a guy I saw play in the men's open division in Cincinnati last June. Coincidence? Because it's June? I digress, he was an ordinary looking guy, probably late 20's early 30's. He walked out onto the court wearing brown shorts, they kind of looked like cargo shorts but I wasn't sure, a plain white tee shirt and on his face, big tortoise shell glasses, ala the 80's. He carried two racquets and a gallon jug of water. That's it. Very unassuming and nerd like. The man he was playing had a nice tennis bag, cool outfit and looked the part of a tennis player. He went through all the stretches and prep work that you'd see from a serious athlete. This nerd, my hero just sauntered onto the court like it was just another day. My initial thought was, “This guy is going to get his ass kicked. I mean, two racquets and a gallon jug of water? Look at his outfit? Come on, this is a tournament, pal!”

Little did I know. He destroyed the other guy, the serious tennis type fella. This dude was getting pissed by the minute too, because I know he thought the same thing I was thought when we saw 'el Nerdo walk onto the court. “This is going to be easy.” He probably said to himself.

Well, I want to be that nerd guy. The unassuming one that walks onto a tennis court and destroys people. I even have the glasses too. What better way to achieve revenge than wearing these? Sans fake mustache, of course.

I was thinking about wearing glasses anyway because in June, my allergies kick in and they wreak havoc with my contact lenses. So, the big glasses might not only be a misleading tactic in my plot for revenge but they're practical as well.

Now, the only difference, I just got a brand new tennis bag, a nice one. But, what I'll do is leave it in my car. I do carry a lot of stuff, extra clothes and what not. I'll just leave all that stuff in my car. I'll walk out onto the court carrying two racquets, I'll probably have more than two because I like to have four, just a weird quirk with the number four I have. Again, I'll leave the other two racquets in my car. I won't have just a gallon jug, I'll have a Coleman thermo jug that I like. Other than that, I'll be just like that nerd guy. I mean, I will wear proper shorts, they just won't be flashy, nor will my shirt. Yeah. I'll have the big frames, my two racquets and a water jug. Oh, and a towel, he had a towel. That's it.

I'd be kind of like a super hero if you think about it. Unassuming character with big glasses, turns into a “super” tennis player, yep, Superman. I think I'm ready for the challenge.

My Life As a Middle Aged Tennis Bum- Cincinnatti (Part II)

Tony Moschetto — Tue, 06 Mar 2012 18:28:17 GMT

The best part about playing tournaments, well the bigger ones, is there's an electricity in the air. It's hustle and bustle, snack bar sales soar and it's fun. In Cincinnati, not only was there a men's 45 draw, but a men's open and a junior tournament going on right on the other side of the clay courts. It was cool, some kid was wearing the same sneakers as I was. We chuckled. It was a moment. It was like I remembered from the 80's. Playing tournaments with several other draws going on. It was an event, not just a piddly old tournament. It was fun and social. I met people and mingled amongst my peers and talked tennis. Compliments were thrown around, “Hey, I really like the way you serve.”

“Thanks, you're backhand is awesome.” That type of stuff. If, in fact, I play in this tournament again, I plan on playing in the open and 45 division, just so I get the maximum tennis out of it.

This particular tournament, I only played one match. The first match, my opponent didn't show up. It vaulted me into the semi's where I had to face the number two seed. A gentleman, ten to twelve years my senior. This, would become a theme for the summer of '11, playing older dudes. Dudes nonetheless, it was on and I quickly found out, no matter what your age is, if you're ready to compete then you can be dangerous. For me, I was ready to compete, my forehand, however, had different ideas on this particular day.

Up until this first match, I'll call it my first match, although technically, it was my second, I felt kind of uneasy about my forehand and how I was hitting it. They day before I was rallying with a high school kid that worked at the club. He was playing in the junior tournament, so, he had something at stake as well. I remember working pretty hard, getting a good sweat in. I was mad at myself for not being consistent enough.

Outside the courts, in the parking lot, were a dozen or so military personnel. I believe they were Air Force, seeing how there is an airport nearby. It could've been Army actually, come to think of it. All of them, just came back from some kind of run. They were doing a fitness test, I overheard one of them say. One of the dudes was leaning on my car, he had his forearms on my trunk, his head resting on it as well. I said to myself, “Great, some sweaty bastard getting his sweaty slime all over my car.” Then I remembered, that's our military sweating on my trunk. The ones who protect our freedoms and our precious way of life. I wanted to applaud him and thank him for dripping his manliness onto my car. “Thanks for your service! Your sweat is symbolic of your sacrifice, sir. Semper Fi and be all you can be, my friend.” But, I didn't. They had left. I wasn't thinking about my forehand anymore.

The worst thing that can happen while playing tennis, besides either shitting yourself or getting shot from a sniper that's perched in the trees just outside the court, is tentativeness. Being tentative is my worst nightmare. It's self-doubt on steroids and during my warm up it reared its ugly bulbous head. I could feel it. Not only would I be in battle with my opponent, 10-12 years my senior, but I'd be battling myself and my stupid tentativeness. I went down pretty easy in the first set, 3-6. Missing forehands miserably, backhands as well. The worst shot, though, had to be the forehand approach. I either netted the it or sailed it long into the fence. I was looking like the older man.

I started the second set where I left off during the first, my tentativeness covering me like a wet blanket. I couldn't discard it. It stuck to my skin and I felt suffocated. I was going to be tentative until I decided not to be. The time came when I was down 2-5. My serve was broken for the second time and it looked grim. One of the hardest things in tennis is serving out a match, the finishing. Even the mightiest of tennis players tighten up at this point. This happened to my opponent, while at the same time, I loosened. My tentativeness blanket lifted. Three games later we were even, 5-5 and I was serving. Unfortunately, my non-tentative run only lasted those three games, I was broken and he held, 5-7. Game, set and match.The only consolation I took from this loss, the gentleman who beat me ended up winning the tournament.

From that sad day in Cincinnati and throughout the summer, I kept trying to wrangle myself out from the tormenting shroud of tentativeness that I thought was holding me back. When in fact, the biggest thing holding me back was my total lack of understanding. That led to being tentative. After a dismal defeat in August, I came to the conclusion that I have no idea what the hell I was doing in regards to my forehand. No idea whatsoever. So, I stopped playing tournaments and began to focus on the next step. What the hell am I going to do about the forehand?

My Life As a Middle Aged Tennis Bum- Cincinnatti (Part I)

Tony Moschetto — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 16:45:07 GMT

June 23, 2011

Cincinnati is a sprawling metropolis. It has a some cool places like King's Island, a giant amusement park. Right across the highway is a tennis complex, home to an ATP event that takes place a few weeks before the U.S Open every year. It attracts some of the best players in the world. Other than that, that's all I know. Of course they have their sports teams, the Reds and the Bengals. And, who can forget the hit television show, “WKRP in Cincinnati”. That station doesn't really exist but it was a very funny TV show.

I really don't know a lot about Cincinnati, come to think of it. I did drive past the city itself three years ago. It's relatively small and I definitely recognized some buildings from the opening theme to “WKRP in Cincinnati”. I also drove by the baseball and football stadiums, which were pretty awesome. I did a gig here last year and saw mostly what I'm seeing know, suburbia. Malls and chain restaurants dot the countryside, there's almost no sign of culture at all. In fact, I didn't think any kind of culture existed here, until today. I was driving to the tennis complex where the tournament is taking place. After ten or so miles of highway and ugliness, the scenery changes. The houses begin to take on character and neighborhoods reveal themselves. Some of the places I drove through today reminded me of home. Like I was driving in Brookline, Newton or Arlington. I could sense some history as I made my way through the quaint streets of Mt. Lookout. What a cool little place. Nestled in between two massive hills, this dainty little town reminded me of Europe. Now, I've never been to Europe, just England and China but I've seen pictures of Europe. It felt like a little village in Bavaria or somewhere like that. The buildings were brick, small and very close together. Some had thatched roofs too. In the middle of this town was a roundabout. That's what made me think of somewhere in the German countryside.

Somehow, I got sidetracked and that was all I wrote that day. The location of the tennis facility was very nice. Usually, tennis courts are situated in beautiful areas and that's how it should be. I will reiterate, driving to the tennis courts was one of my favorite things about the trip. It put me in the right frame of mind. It made me feel comfortable and at home for some reason. I wish I had gone back to the town itself, Mt. Lookout, to perhaps have some dinner and hang out at the coffee house there. In retrospect, that's what I should've done. The only negative thing, creeping about, lurking around the corners of my mind, was the fact that my forehand was crap. I carried on.

This particular tennis complex, the Linder Tennis Center, was massive. It had sixteen courts in total, eight hardtru clay and eight hard court. It's a tennis player's paradise. Equally impressive, there's an indoor club right across the street. I was completely impressed, hopefully you are as well.

I got the chance to hit the day before the tournament with a high school kid that worked at the facility. For the life of me I can't remember his name. He was a nice kid though. I tipped him twenty bucks for hitting with me, which, I think, he was grateful. My forehand seemed to be cooperating at the time and I felt okay. When I say, okay, I mean somewhere in between complete confidence and yikes. Still, probably pointing towards yikes. I had no problem in my first match, beating my opponent, 0 and 0. That's right, double bagel! He probably would've gotten a few games if he had, indeed, showed up. I won my first match in a walk over because the guy I was supposed to play didn't make it. So, it goes down in the books like this: A. Moschetto d. D. Meredith, 6-0, 6-0(Wo).

I look at it this way, I won my first match in Cincinnati and my forehand wasn't a liability.

What People Already Know...about Action Films

Tony Moschetto — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 18:03:29 GMT

I've just finished my bagel and fortunately my coffee is still warm. That perfect warm, you know, the temperature in between scolding and cold. This temperature window of opportunity is fleeting so I sip earnestly and with urgency.

The tick tick tock of the clock in the kitchen clashes with the soothing sound of the washing machine in the basement. The swishing beat and whirling rhythm is music, a song, each cycle, a new movement in a classic piece. The next movement is titled, spin cycle. I chuckle to myself.

Someone knows what I'm talking about, with their air tight alibis, rugged jeans and black tee shirt. Somehow, they manage to escape the daily grind of life, living underground and only coming out at night. They sleep in or they don't. They're in a coffee shop early in the morning getting coffee because they can't sleep, their life consumed with living it incognito, below the surface, unnoticeable to the rest of society. They are your spies, your runaway convicts or just someone on the run from something. They're a government agent or a witness that doesn't want to be found. They're rogue, good people who got caught up with some bad apples. Set up by the ones who trained them. Whoever they are they're hackneyed and played out. One movie after another, these types are there. Do any genuine loners of the oblivion really live their lives like this? This stereotype exists in our minds with their boots, hairless chests and jacked bodies. You never see them at the gym though.

My Action Movie:

Is there a gym for individuals living underground? Is there an underground gym that's literally underground? Yes, and you don't have to show an ID to get in. Better, you have to talk your way in, that's part of the code, part of the way of life of the loner/action movie hero. My hero impresses the gym boss with his wit and gets a free month's membership.

Intrigue follows after the workout as he exits through the parking garage. Of course there's a parking garage scene. Suddenly, headlights come on and dart out at our friend, the genuine loner. The car screeches to a halt and a big hairy arm points at our man carrying his work out bag and says, “I saw you. I saw you looking at me, not wiping down the elliptical machine after I used it. You better not tell the manager.”

“Or what?”

“Or this.” Through the window a dirty towel is hurled, narrowly missing the hero. “Next time, it'll be dirtier.” Yells, the hairy armed man. The car drives off. Where would he go if he couldn't go to the underground gym? He'll be damned if he has to go and join Gold's or even worse, Planet Fitness. Gross. He doesn't want to make trouble, he's out of the game. He just wants to live his life and lift weights, preparing for the unexpected mission/job he'll be forced to do in the next scene.

The Next Scene:

Sitting at his kitchen table, sipping coffee, from the coffee shop, some thuggy looking dudes bust in telling him so and so wants to see him. He fights back with the dudes but gets knocked out. He comes to on some type of round couch in a dimly lit room. He hears the thumping of disco music from the other room. Rubbing the back of his neck, he wisecracks, “That music is giving me a headache.”

Don't want to give you too much information about my movie...

How easy is it to write an action movie? Pretty easy if you ask me. I've got the makings of a blockbuster right in front of me. Hope you liked the wisecrack too. It's okay if it was kind of lame because he can be lame in the wisecrack department. It's not his job to be funny. This is not a comedy after all. I mean, it could have more comical tinges to it but we'll wait for that when the punch ups occur. Until then he says a somewhat witty line showing the viewers he's not scared and that he'll find a way out of this predicament. Witty lines show his heroism and carefree attitude towards life.

Also, we as viewers get a sense of what it's like to be him and how he intends to kick the ass of the people who put him here. A rematch with the thugs will most definitely happen.

These types of scenes wouldn't work if the guy was like, “What's going on? I'm doomed, I've never been in this situation before. I'm dead. I better do what I'm told here because if I don't I'll be in big big trouble. I know, I'll reason with them when they get back to do whatever they're going to do to me, they have to be reasonable, right?”

Not good. We'd hate the guy if he acted like that. No, the characteristics of an action movie have to be so: the main man has to be witty, has to be brave, has to be handsome and in shape. He doesn't have to know all the answers but has to be willing to learn. Somehow, he does figure it out and saves the day or is vindicated. Whatever path is taken, humbleness is always a good trait for these characters. Sure, there have been some twists on this theme and humor has been served when the main character is set up with a buffoon, the oldest trick in the books. But hey, you already know this.

My Life As a Middle Aged Tennis Bum

Tony Moschetto — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 18:26:00 GMT

The story of my life is this: I haven't got what I want out of it thus far. Is this the story of your life? That's right, “your” is in bold and italics for emphasis. I will assume the answer is yes for most of you. For me, my goal in life is simple, quite simple actually: beat someone in tennis that you have no right beating. Defeat someone so good it defies logic. Win a match so epic it equals the 1980 Men's Olympic Hockey Team's victory over the Russians. Something like that. Is it too much to ask for? I say, no. Anything is possible.

I've had this dream/goal for several years now. Ever since I stopped playing competitive tennis twenty years ago it's been eating at me. Like termites crawling around inside the walls of a house, chomping away, not satisfied until the roof caves in. I don't want my “roof” to cave in so I decided, five years ago, to make a comeback. And even though I'm realistically past my prime, I still feel I have some great, solid years left in me. I believe I can get better and play at a high level yet again, for my age that is.

Yes, I am middle aged. That doesn't mean I can't beat someone younger or defeat a man, or woman, my own age with world class ability. No, it doesn't. Again, anything is possible.

Last June, I started “the comeback”. I felt good, physically. Mentally, I was present and accounted for. My forehand, however, atrocious. My confidence, low. I carried on though, sallied forth, that sort of thing. My so called tennis tour started in, all places, Cincinnati Ohio. Which is quite the tennis mecca and I'm not being sarcastic. The following excerpt is from last June's pilgrimage to Cincinnati. In the very near future, there will be other excerpts from that trip and my tournament experiences from last summer. I will definitely explore my state of mind and try and explain the train wreck that was my forehand. Yes, was my forehand. All of this leading up to the big tournament in Brewster, Mass., this June.

June 20, 2011

After an eleven hour drive I stopped in Akron. It made sense because it's on the way to Cincinnati and they have a comedy club. I'd camp out for the night at an Econo Lodge about nine miles west of the comedy club and closer to Cincinnati. It was a nice break from the travel and I'd do a spot at the club.

I was concerned about the bed bug epidemic sweeping the nation. Before my trip I checked out the bed bug registry and to my delight, no bed bugs at “the Lodge”. But, concentrating on one issue/problem, like bed bugs, you take your focus away from other things, oh, um, like stains. Yeah, peculiar stains. Stains that sneak up on you when you least expect them. Because I'm checking the bed looking for any sign of a bug, I miss the huge white stain on the blanket. It made the blanket quite crusty in fact. I didn't notice as I was laying on it until I got up from my nap. Again, too busy looking for bed bugs. I thought the worst immediately, “Did I just nap on some other mans seed?” No, this stain was too big for it to be that. If it was gizz then I give this guy a round of applause because it was massive. Then I thought, could it be from a woman, the remnants of a night of loving? I didn't know if I should've been grossed out more at the thought, but I wasn't. Rational thoughts were creeping into my brain by now, what if it's just soap and they didn't rinse it well enough, makes more sense right? All I had to do to prove it was to smell it. If it smelled like soap it was cool. I smelled it. My conclusion: I don't know what it is. I mean, it smelled somewhat sweet and fruity but I don't know. I slept on the opposite side of the stain, that was my solution.

Next was the bathroom and the blood stain on the rim of the bath tub. A small little drop, yes it was. I also found what looked like a pubic hair near where you put the soap. I didn't put my soap there. What happened in this shower? I've seen enough crime shows to make me believe I've stumbled upon a crime scene. Rational thoughts again, the cleaning woman was working so hard scrubbing the tub she cut herself. The pube is just a pube.

Oh, I forgot to mention, there were two bars of soap in individually wrapped plastic. One of them was open and had a small shard of soap in it. Just like we all do at home. Take the old small soap and attach it to the bigger full bar. Is Econo Lodge trying to save money?

This hotel room would be great if I were a forensic student. If I wanted to be CSI, this room would be heaven. Perhaps this is how they test forensic wannabes, put them in an Econo Lodge in Akron Ohio where there are strange stains on the sheets and blood spatters and pubic hairs in the bathtub.

Of course I was a wimp and didn't request another room.

The Great Florida Trip of 2012- Epilogue

Tony Moschetto — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 15:29:30 GMT

Nothing stops creative momentum like a long car ride. Make that two long car rides. My last two days were consumed by driving and staring at the scenery. I found myself, countless times, saying out loud, "I remember that exit," or, "Geez, glad I don't live here."
The best and worst part about driving ten hour days is you get the chance to think. It's a process. Personally, I go through stages. There's the beginning stage where I'm excited to get on the road, my adrenaline kicks in as I begin the journey with unbridled enthusiasm. After an hour or two, the real thinking begins and depending on where you're heading, it either becomes a source of positive visualization or one colossal mind fuck.
Going to Florida it was positive visualization for sure, coming back, the opposite occurred. It was like a negative conference in my mind and all the usual suspects showed up. There was Fear, brought on by a flickering oil light, which brought on Worry. Worry also was worried about my upcoming financial picture and how I was going to swing paying my bills and getting my car checked out. You see, previously on my trip, my "check engine" light came on. I stopped at an Advance Auto Parts store and they put the car on a diagnostics machine. The results came back a leak in the emissions, which has happened before, no chance of breaking down because the engine was fine. But, Worry had me thinking of what was to become of that and how much it was going to cost. At this time Self Doubt showed up, drunk and with some floozy. He began with the, "You should've done this and you could've done that..." and on and on. The floozy just laughed at everything he said. Thank god I had to stop and pee.
When I returned to my car and began to drive I noticed the conference had ended. Which brings me to the next stage, The Stage of Awakening.
A peacefulness washes over me and I begin to think of all the things I'm going to do when I get back. All the good routines and habits I'm going to begin and stick with, the great jokes I'm going to write and all the good tennis I'm going to play. It's just a nice stage of wonderment and excitement. I like this stage, quickly my thoughts turn to the past and of the trip.
I learned a few things or realized a couple of things to be exact. It could be four things, who knows, we'll count together.
One: my expectations were far different than what actually transpired. For instance, during the first ten days, the hotels I stayed in were shit holes, shame on me for thinking I'd get more than I paid for. The people I'd meet, the friendliness I wanted to encounter, didn't happen. I'm not sure why because I frequented the same places and saw the same people but they were working and didn't share the same enthusiasm I had for talking to a stranger. It seemed wherever I went people kept to themselves. The comedy shows I did were a disaster as well. I was supposed to do three shows for an "establishment" that has a few rooms on the east side of Florida. The guy that owns it is also a "comedian". Well, I had the privilege of bombing in front of him after the second show. Needless to say there wasn't a third one. I tucked my tail between my legs and moved on.
Two: I know a lot of people but I don't KNOW them. Does that make sense? During my trip my aunt passed away. She lived in Largo Florida, which is about an hour and a half north from where my sister lives. Last Saturday, my sister, her boyfriend and myself traveled to visit my uncle and pay our respects. We arrived and my uncle introduced me to his son and daughter(my cousins) who, I don't think I've ever met. If I did meet them, it was a long time ago and I don't remember it. It was a great afternoon listening to stories and hearing my uncle recant the story of how he met my aunt, his navy days and how he's only a half brother to my mother. It was amazing. I got to know my cousins too. These are people in my family that I should know. I'm saying, at least have some closeness to them that I don't have now. They're not only family, they're cool.
It was like that when I stayed at Brian and Marylin's in Jacksonville. I kept saying to myself, why don't I know these people better. I had the chance a few years ago when they lived in Boston. They were so kind and accommodating I kind of felt guilty for staying. This is a pattern in my life I'd like to change. I'd like to get to know the people in my life.
It was two things. Fortunately, the last half of the GFT of 2012 was awesome. I stayed at my sister's and it was beautiful. I didn't clog the toilet once. People were extremely friendly and I played tennis with one of the most interesting men I've ever met. Comedy wise, I kicked ass. Most importantly, I have a forehand. It will indeed be a great summer for tennis.
The final stage is happiness when I see that entering Massachusetts sign. Time to take what I learned and put it to the test. Am I better person now? Maybe. I don't think this trip made me a better man, I think I'm a good man with more experience and insight, which I'm very grateful.
Thanks to everyone that made the trip a memorable one. The hotel I stayed in the last night of my trip.

The Great Florida Trip of 2012- Last Stop Jacksonville

Tony Moschetto — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 05:58:53 GMT

I was up early on Sunday morning. I loaded the car and said my goodbyes to my sister, her boyfriend and their two little dogs. It was hard to say goodbye after an outstanding week of great weather and good company. I headed off to Kissimmee, a three hour trek north through the many strip mall towns of Florida. Actually, there are a few towns and cities with some history and character, not all are contrived.
In Kissimmee I was to meet up with my tennis coach for one last lesson before venturing further north. After two hours on the court, a quick change of clothes, I was back in the car for another three hour drive, destination Jacksonville.
The plan was simple, stop in Jacksonville, do a comedy show in a coffee house that night and leave for home the next morning. It was set up by Brian Foley, a fellow comedian I met back in Boston a couple of years ago. He moved down to Florida to teach law.
I've never been to Jacksonville, just passed through it a couple of times. Once, years ago, when I moved to Florida briefly and the second time just three weeks ago. Luckily, it was Sunday so there wasn't a lot of traffic, a good thing for a first time driver visiting a new city. I noticed a modern architecture combined with an old Southern charm vibe to the buildings and houses. There was definitely a new part of town and an old part as well. It was cool. I like to get a vibe from a new place based on the character of the houses in a particular neighborhood. At a traffic light I observed three zombies walking in the middle of the road. I'm kidding, they weren't real zombies, just crack addicts taking a walk in the middle of the street. After all, it was a very pleasant afternoon.
The next thing I saw was a drug deal. I've seen enough crime shows to know what a heroin transaction looks like. Gulp. Memories of Hardeeville, SC., and all of the bad hotels I had stayed in previously came flooding back. Is it happening again?! I tried to think good thoughts.
As I turned onto the street of my destination I noticed another troubling sight, bars on all the windows of every house. I won't lie, I wanted to keep driving but I thought, this can't be too bad, there's a sweet old black woman sitting outside her house. That comforted me in some way. Brian's wife answered the door a pleasant, petite woman and told me he was dealing with a crisis. Apparently, they were having some work done and the guys doing it knocked out part of the power throughout the house. Her name is Marylin. At first, I thought she said Maryland, which I thought was an odd name for someone but I quickly came to my senses and figured it out. Her warm smile made me feel welcomed.
Brian came hustling in, said hello, shook my hand, apologized and sped off to assist the workers with the crisis. He looked the same as the last time I saw him a couple of years ago.
After several minutes, he came back. I was still feeling a little uneasy with the neighborhood and voiced my concern. Their reaction calmed me. They laughed. Okay, I thought and that reassured me. Also, I could park my car in the back and off the street, yippee.
Brian's a comedian/author/lawyer and Marylin's a philosophy professor. In fact, check out Brian's book right here. It has a great title. I don't know how he got any work done with an office like this.

He's guaranteed me that if I post a picture of his messy office, he'll be inspired to clean it and send me the after photo.
This last night of the Florida trip was great. Next, we went out to dinner and I got the best steak I've ever eaten. We had wine with our food and I felt forever sophisticated.
The show at the coffee house was spectacular. A great way to end the trip. The crowd was especially grateful as well. The jumped for joy.

Then made some rather silly faces.

As I lay in bed that night, thinking of the night's events and all the nice people I had met, I thought maybe I read everything wrong. The neighborhood, as rough as it looked had charm to it, I mean, after awhile you didn't notice the iron bars at all. It was peaceful and quiet. Who knows, maybe the gentleman I saw selling drugs was just a popular fellow. Maybe, he knew the person in the passenger seat and was just shaking hands with him. And those crack heads, well, they were definitely crack heads.
Most importantly, Brian says, "Come back real soon!"

The Great Florida Trip of 2012- Days Sixteen & Seventeen

Tony Moschetto — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 18:27:38 GMT

It rained today. I cannot believe it. My world was shattered at five thirty this morning. A down pour for the ages, pounding the roof of this quaint little Florida cabana. Just, loud angry rain. I imagined the size of the rain drops to be equal to those of softballs, shooting down from the sky, as if God and all the angels were hurling them indiscriminately and with malice towards the earth. It finally stopped but the ground is still wet. No sun as of yet. Will it return tomorrow? You betcha!
My plan was to go to the tennis club and hit some balls off the ball machine. I had a mini-breakthrough the other day with my forehand and I want to keep the momentum going. I'll have to wait until tomorrow, unfortunately.
I played yesterday with this man, who, at first, I misjudged. He seemed like a friendly fellow over the phone but when I met him, I don't think he even shook my hand. He said hi and walked by. I followed him like a puppy dog as he walked fast and with purpose. It was kind of hard to keep up with him because of the long stride produced by his 6'2" body frame. He's a much older man, 73 to be exact, as I found out later.
We waited to put our tennis bags down as the ladies cleared themselves and their belongings out. Well, I waited, this man seemed in a huff to get his gear out and onto the court. What's this guy's problem? Relax. It must be when you're that old you have to rush and do everything because time is running out, yikes, did I just sound like a dick? I'm going to be there someday.(In a sing songy voice)
Not much of a warm up either. I was worried because I need to groove my strokes and set up a rhythm before I play points. It showed because this guy began strong, making me make mistakes. He hit me a lot of junk and with no pace whatsoever. He didn't talk also, he was intense. I'm thinking, please hour and a half, fly by. It wasn't until we sat down in between games that my opinion changed.
I can't remember how it was brought up, but we, actually he started talking about politics. I said something that triggered him going off on the "nitwits" and later "dickheads" otherwise known as the Republican candidates for President. It turns out, this man, is a retired school teacher with a master's degree. He's a big political science buff and very knowledgeable in all things politics. It was impressive. I learned a lot too. I learned that only 53% of the people in America pay taxes and if we're going to get out of this mess we're in unfortunately everyone has to pitch in, even him, a senior citizen has to contribute. I also learned that a guy, can't remember his name, that earned over 63 million last year only payed 11% in taxes. I said, "Wow, I pay 28%." Which he responded, emphatically, putting his hands up to his head while shaking it, "No no no no no!" I found out that I probably only contribute about 12%. "Not right, huh?" He said. My girlfriend didn't agree but I'm going with this guy. Not right because a guy that made 63 million is paying roughly what I pay. Not only that, big corporations like Verizon, GE, etc... that make billions don't pay diddly squat. I don't know how much of this is true but he's convinced me. My girlfriend is not convinced.
It was great, in between games he'd get riled up and expend a lot of energy. It helped and I took the first set 7-5.
I also learned he's kind of a sad man. After 50 years of marriage, he and his wife divorced. Basically, he said this, "We didn't have the marital problems that usually break up marriages. I treated her great, no infidelity, money wasn't a problem, I never laid a hand on her that wasn't in a loving way, she's just crazy." Then, with arms flailing and a piercing truthful tone, the tone in a voice that displays urgency as if to warn someone of impending doom, kind of like a time traveler that comes back and tries to convince someone not to go into that cave, well, it was like that. "Women are crazy!! They're all, all of 'em! I've never met one that wasn't." My girlfriend didn't agree with assessment either. Kind of sounds like crazy talk to me.
"But hey, I am seeing a woman now and she's great." He continued. "She's in good shape for her age, teaches piano, has huge tits..." I could only imagine those tits. The tits of a 70 something woman. I think this tactic worked for him because all of a sudden I couldn't hit a backhand to save my life. He rattled off four straight games and took a 5-3 lead in the second set.
Instead of finishing off the set, we sat and he told me the importance of getting a colonoscopy. I'm convinced. My girlfriend agrees.
I like this guy. He's true and honest and has much knowledge about many things. He's very very entertaining, his swearing, his opinions and at one point did the "stroking of the penis" motion to make on of his points. Hilarious. I'm playing tennis with him tomorrow.
Finally, I thought this was a cool pic to share with you. Suburbia at its finest.

The Great Florida Trip of 2012- The Fifteenth Day

Tony Moschetto — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 20:25:44 GMT

What an odd microwave, I'm thinking to myself right now. I just put in a cup of coffee and it heated the cup itself more than the liquid inside. I had to use an oven mitt just to get the cup out. If I knew more about science I could probably explain why the cup itself is hotter than the coffee inside. One will never know.
That's the challenge of being away from familiar territory. You have to get used to things over and over again when you're in an exotic locale. I've been doing that this whole trip. Dealing with microwaves, beds and especially foreign toilets. Those stress me out the most. I almost have to make friends with the commode before I use it. I'll tell you this too, because I know you want to hear it, when I'm away I have a hard time doing my duty. Remember back in the late 70's, early 80's there was a show on ABC called, "That's Incredible"? I used to watch it religiously, it may have been on NBC, it doesn't matter, I loved it. They had this Indian man named, The Yogi Kudu. He could contort his body in such a way he could fit into a small box. One time, they put him into a clear box and place him at the bottom of a pool. He trained his body to slow down his heart rate and breathing so he could be confined in a space like that and not die. My body pretty much does that but not in a meditative way, in I can hold poop for a long time.
For the past two weeks I've been staying in scum holes and I realized that I've been grossed out the entire time. It's probably the biggest reason I can't relax and I'm on edge. The hotels I've picked I'm worried if I'm either going to clog the toilet, get bed bugs or get caught in the middle of a domestic dispute. It sucked.
Now, I have serenity. I'm at my sister Lisa's house in Port Charlotte, which is about an hour south of Sarasota. It's also right next to a lovely place called, Punta Gorda. I've been playing tennis there the past couple of days and the people there couldn't be friendlier, it's great. Now, I talked about stereotypes in yesterday's blog and I'm going to do that again in this one. You know when hack comedians describe Florida as "God's waiting room"? Well, they must have come to Port Charlotte. It is the quintessential Florida that is made fun of and talked about in movies, television and probably right in your own living room. Take for instance, my sister and I at Walgreen's yesterday. Walgreen's in Florida, where adult diapers are prominently displayed, can you say in your face?
We're standing in line and luckily, we just paid for our stuff when out of the blue, like a slow moving water drop, a man rushes the register and exclaims, "The money machine, it didn't give me enough! What do I do?" Well, for one, you could wait in line, it's only ten deep at this point. Mainly, because the old broad cashier is, well, fucking old.
"The money machine, it didn't give me enough!" I picture this guy later in the day, "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up!" Just a panic, just a everything in his life is this urgent. The term, "Go with the flow" probably has never crossed his mind. This man was Morty Seinfeld times ten. The money machine. Fuck you!
This is great though. My sister's house is beautiful. It's actually nice to talk and hang out with people at night. Lisa and her boyfriend Paul are the best. They've made me feel like a king and more welcome than anyone. Above all, their toilet rocks.
During the day, I go to Punta Gorda and hit off the ball machine at the tennis club, come home and hang out with the dogs. Teddy and Sofie/Sofia. It's paradise.

The Great Florida Trip of 2012- Days Ten thru Fourteen

Tony Moschetto — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 19:41:46 GMT

I've had some time now to really reflect on my trip. My mission. My sojourn into the abyss that is Florida. Maybe I'm being a little dramatic here, sojourn might not be the right term for entering an abyss. One usually tumbles or falls into one, me it's like I sauntered into the abyss. Willingly of course. That was my challenge, the whole thing has been a challenge. The expectations in my head haven't once matched up with reality. I probably should've known better because this isn't my only trip into the abyss. Also, I've noticed something about myself that I wish I would kind of stop doing, and that is being so judgmental. I say kind of, because if I stop doing it, I'll have no fun at all. Perhaps I'll tone down the judgment after this entry. That's what I'll do.

On Sunday I traveled to Tampa from Casselberry, with one stop in between in Kissimmee to take a tennis lesson and watch the Patriots. I, for one, was glad to get out of Casselberry and the greater Orlando area. Orlando is a place for people who like places like Orlando. It really has nothing besides Disney and three Souplantation/Sweet Tomatoes locations. That's it!
The greater Orlando area also has something so prevalent, so in your face, that it borders on being cartoonish. For some reason, there are men, many many men that feel the need to tuck in their tee shirt, polo shirt into their jean shorts. Basically, they tuck their shirts in when probably, they should be left untucked. You know these guys. They're all on the hefty side, yes, there are a few in shape, but mostly big guys with short hair and a mustache. They also have a cell phone strapped to their belt and seem to always be on business. It's usually in a coffee shop, or and Einstein Bros Bagel store. These guys are everywhere down here. Everywhere! It's a "guys who look like cops" convention that is perpetually going on in Orlando.

There's stereotypes like this all over Florida. Where I stayed, boy oh boy, for instance, there was an African American man, definitely in his twenties, I'd see around the hotel. One day he was playing catch with his young son in the parking lot. From that point on, we exchanged pleasantries whenever we saw each other. On my last day there I ran into him and three white women at the dollar store so conveniently located right across the street from the 'Burb.(Short for Suburban Suites Extended Stay) They had tattoos, one woman had blue eye shadow, another woman kind of looked like she would be the sister of the blue eye shadowed woman. Both of them looked like they were in their thirties. The third woman was young and had reddish brown hair and was somewhat attractive. She had fake boobies and was pushing an infant in a stroller. I ended up behind them at the checkout counter. The one with the blue eye shadow referred to this fellow as her husband. It surprised me a little. Nonetheless, he'll probably have an affair with the younger one with the fake boobies and they'll all end up on Jerry Springer. I'd be able to say I knew them when.

I drove the hour and forty three minute drive to Tampa in one hour and thirty seven minutes. I've never been to Tampa, well, once, but it was at the airport and I left immediately to go south. Never been deep inside it. I wasn't deep inside it on this particular evening either. I was in a part of Tampa called, Ybor City. Just the tip. #sexreferencehaha This place resembles New Orleans in a way, with the narrow streets, lots of balconies, bars, and a street car. I met my friend Tom there. He was working at the Tampa Improv and had the club's condo all to himself, so I bunked up for the night. It saved me money and broke up my trip further south to Port Charlotte nicely. Tom is a very funny and bright man that knows how to live life. He may live it too hard but I learned something hanging out with him at a bar called, The Boneyard. They have awesome chicken wings, if you're ever deep inside Ybor City.
When I go away, I'm always in search of adventure, nothing dangerous, maybe more like experiences, new people and places that sort of thing. Hanging out with Tom at this bar I felt that vibe. It's something that I didn't feel in Orlando/Casselberry that's for sure. I felt normal and connected on the tennis court but there was no newness to it. Being in a bar with like minded people, that's when I felt it, the connection with living, the sense of adventure and being out in the world experiencing life. Who knows, maybe I'm just an alcoholic and love to be in bars but I don't think that's the case. Tom is to me like Dean Moriarty was to Sal Paradise. They guy just goes out and experiences the world and doesn't care. I don't want to live totally the way he lives because I love my liver too much but there was something to be learned. Wanting to be a writer, this is the way to do it, experience life. Because, deep down, everyone I meet are just characters in my book. All the great authors did this and I too want to do the same. Sometimes, you've got to take chances and go beyond your comfort zone. Tom can do this easily.
Tom told me of some of the characters he'd met during his time in Tampa and I was hoping to run into at least one of them. For the experience of course. He told me about the guy in a diaper running down the street wearing a gas mask. He told me of the "Senator" an elderly man who only wears bikini underwear. That's not the bizarre part. He takes viagra to achieve an erection and dances around like that. He's quite well known around those parts. But, there's someone else, probably more infamous than the Senator. This man is known as the Tampa Bay Shoe Licker. His claim to fame is he'll sneak up on you and lick the bottom of your shoe. Yeah, he got me.

The Great Florida Trip of 2012- Days Eight and Nine

Tony Moschetto — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 05:44:31 GMT

I'm in a reflective mood right now as I sit on my faux tempurpedic bed. It's probably one of the most comfortable beds I've slept on as far as hotel beds go. I'm very relaxed and am thinking of drifting off into a nice peaceful sleep. One of those night's sleeps that is continuous, no getting up and going to the bathroom that sort of thing. Just fall asleep then wake up refreshed and renewed. I felt that way today, a bit refreshed a bit renewed. One of the reasons I didn't blog on day eight, well, THE reason why I didn't blog was because of how tired I was. I literally had a five hour tennis lesson. My coach fed me tennis balls for five hours in the hot Florida sun. My face was torched. I didn't even feel it until later. My face hurt when I got up this morning, a reminder of those hours. Those five glorious hours. I love concentrating on a particular task, especially if it's a fun one. I like the feeling of shutting out the entire rest of the world and working my ass off to accomplish the correct way to hit a world class forehand. It reminds me of the days when that's all that mattered, when all thoughts were tennis. I still think that way to some extent but I'm realistic. Back then I had hopes and dreams, goals yet to be completed. A whole world in front of me with the sky being the limit. I had visions. I had pictures of me playing in grand stadiums in front of huge crowds, living the life. I also pictured myself traveling around Europe playing low level tournaments, slogging it out on the red clay. It's different over there, the clay. It's pure and has been part of history. Kings probably walked over the ground from which the clay was taken. I thought, whatever tennis had in store for me or wherever it took me I'd be happy just playing the game, hitting groundies somewhere in this world.
In a sense, tennis has brought me here to Florida. Doing the comedy thing was just an excuse, a convenient explanation if you will for me to make the trek south.
I admit, there was a side of me in the beginning that was optimistic and saw this trip as perhaps a jump start in comedy, a new attitude, a chance to prove to myself that I am able to do well away from the comfort zone of home. Well, at this point, I really don't care. Situations, past events and circumstances have affected my thinking. This way of thinking, not caring, may bode well in next week's shows. What do I have to lose? What does it matter? I'm indifferent when looking forward to them. They are what they are, just moments in time and I can only control just one thing. Me.
Until then, I have a forehand to perfect.

The Great Florida Trip of 2012- Tag Acht

Tony Moschetto — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 13:53:15 GMT

Surprisingly there were no screaming women, no altercations, no idling cars outside my door, nothing. It is truly paradise here at the Suburban Suites Extended Stay/Low income housing projects. I slept right through to 11am. Nice, huh? Maybe I'm becoming one of "them", I hear the faint whispers, "One of us" trail off around me. No, it can't be. I'm just down here to do some comedy shows, make some connections that sort of thing and work my tennis game. Next week I go and stay with my sister, I'm not becoming one of "them" "One of us." Shut up! "Welcome to the Hotel Suburban Suites Extended Stay, what a lovely place, what a lovely place. You can check-out any time you like, But you can never leave!" What?! NO!!

At least there's a Souplantation/Sweet Tomatoes restaurant close by. At least I got that going for me. If I take part in a short phone survey I get 15% off my next visit, which will be tonight. That means a better tip for the woman that cleans my dirty plates off the table. They're so pleasant there, I'm not being sarcastic either, they really are all pleasant and nice. I've never encountered a surly member of The Souplantation/Sweet Tomatoes family. I bet they feel like they're a family. That's how they're trained, one big happy family up in there. Be nice is their motto. It probably says that right on the cover of the employee handbook. In fact, I'm thinking this, I should go down there today and fill out a job application. I'd get hired of course, then I could find out if my theories were right. It would be cool, it's not like I don't have a place to live or anything. "One of us." Wait!
Wow, I'm just a sucker. How susceptible am I to joining a cult? I'll just eat at the SoPlaSweeTo, not join it. I did join their Club Veg though, where I'll get coupons and the best offers straight to my inbox. Sweet!
Oh, and if you want to know what I did on day eight. Got up, went to Einstein Bros Bagels, did some writing and played tennis. Then ended the day at the Soup.
Now, it's off to the welfare office. WHAT!?

The Great Florida Trip of 2012- And on the Seventh Day

Tony Moschetto — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 20:23:43 GMT

I was woken at 6:14am by the soothing and gentle strains of a woman, "Can someone call 911!" The words pierced my eardrums and I realized I wasn't dreaming it, nor was I going to get out of bed and investigate it. After all, there are many other people staying here and all rooms are equipped with phones. The other thing, the hero business I'm not in, choosing otherwise to mind my own. And, if you really know me, you'd would realize that I don't like to be involved with pretty much: everything. My girlfriend can attest to that. #firstjokeoftheblog
I would help someone out in a pinch if I saw it happening or if it was happening to me. To actually, get out of bed, put on my blue sweat pants, tee shirt and Bruins cap on would be a "to do" and to me above and beyond the call of duty. I tend to think, someone else will take care of it, there can only be one hero. The one that decides to get out of bed.
The other reason I didn't get up was because she didn't have a frantic tone to her voice. It sounded more mundane, like she's said this many times over, kind of like that woman that works at the supermarket that calls for customer help in the dairy isle. It had that vibe to it.
The other thing I figured out was that I'm actually staying in a low income housing building. I can't prove it but that's what my senses are telling me based on the last couple of day's events. It's low incoming housing posing as an extended stay hotel. Thanks Craig's list! I found the deal there, Craigslist.org. What kind of name is Craig anyway? Craigslist has steered me wrong more times than Tim Tebow has thanked the Lord.
Only in Florida can you stay at such a place. Florida, the inspiration for the show, "Cops". Remember that show? When reality t.v as "real". Staying here I get the feeling that I am indeed on a reality show. I sleep in my clothes just in case the cops come to my door and accidentally arrest me. I don't want to be that guy with no shirt on. I won't have them pixelate my face either. I need the television credit.

Later in the morning I met up with my old tennis coach. He's a brilliant man and knows tennis inside and out. At one point he coached the Bryan Brothers, if you know tennis this is a huge deal. Also, he's just a cool guy to hang out with and talk about the world, that sort of thing. One of the reasons I came to Florida was to meet up with him and take a couple of lessons, because quite frankly, my forehand has been horrendous for a few years now. That problem got solved and I'm back on the path of having a world class forehand, in my age bracket of course, don't want to get too cocky. But, there will be some payback dished out this summer I assure you.
There was a breakthrough or two today for sure and it makes me feel great. I feel when my tennis game is on, I'm on in the game of life.

The Great Florida Trip of 2012- Day 6- The Car Show

Tony Moschetto — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 05:13:44 GMT

I've been in Florida for four days. The weather has been nice, I wanted to say on the cool side but that just wouldn't make sense since the temperature in Massachusetts is only in the teens at the moment. So, compared to home the weather's been spectacular, yet I cannot relax. It's been a stressful few days. I'm trying to relax and have fun but I'm not feeling it. Most of my worrying is money related, am I going to have enough, can I pay my bills etc...The other source of my stress is these damn hotels. They've all been pretty much shit holes except for the Motel 6 in Martinsburg West Virginia. That was a great place. But since then, I'm 0 for 3. Whatever you do, don't choose a hotel where you can park directly in front of your door. I know it seems comfortable and it gives you peace of mind but in reality it stinks. The number one reason why is the other people staying at the hotel. The last place I was in, in Melbourne, twice I got woken up around 3am because of some selfish pricks and their rude ways. One night someone cranked their stereo up full blast and last night an idiot parked in front of my room and left their car idling for 45 minutes. The sound of an idling car is so annoying it's not even funny.
The place I'm in now, where do I start. First, the room had a funk. A smell that is consistent with an outhouse/horse barn. Yeah, nice, right? It's gotten better, who knows maybe my belongings and I have absorbed the stank and I'll be shunned in public tomorrow. Secondly, I don't think they cleaned the bathroom really well either. Should I complain? Yeah, maybe I should say something tomorrow and they'll come up here and clean the bathroom and give me an air freshener.
Third, it looks as if the television set fell on the floor. There's several. No, more than several, more like there's a shit load of little nicks in the screen that form a bunch of tiny islands. It looks like Hawaii times ten. Sometimes I don't notice them. I probably won't say anything. I'll probably just let it go and just stew over it.
Fourth, oh how do I say it so I don't sound like a pretentious elitist douche bag, there's an element of white trashiness, characteristic in all the motels I've stayed in. Seriously, when I arrived today there was a half dozen kids playing in the parking lot. What the fuck?! To top it off, there's an "interracial couple", nothing wrong with it, having a Jerry Springer moment just as I'm walking by. The woman had something to say to her man. Now listen, I don't care if you have to say something to your man or your lady but have some class and keep it inside. People like this don't care who's around, it blows my mind. The woman, "Hey!" Man ignores her. Again, "Hey! Don't you want to know what she said to me?" Again, man ignores her. "She said, I don't know how you do it. You do all the work and he does nothing!" I just kept on walking and thankfully wasn't around for any more saga. All I'm saying, it so cliche' it's humorous and somewhat sad.
Basically, what I'm saying, I have to get into a higher tax bracket. These situations would go away with a little more d0 ray mi. It would be nice to stay somewhere one day where I walk through a lobby to an elevator and up to my room.
All was not bad on this day six. I ate at my favorite restaurant, Souplantation/Sweet Tomatoes. All you can eat salad and soup bar. My goal is to go there enough so they give me a hat. You have to have goals in life. I'm sure they'll be more about Souplantation/Sweet Tomatoes in the upcoming days. And, there was the car show.

THE CAR SHOW

The only reason I stopped at this thing was because I had an hour and a half to kill before I could check into my "hotel". It was pretty sweet and I'm glad I walked around and observed the cars. I like cars.

It was well organized and there was a radio station there broadcasting live!!! There were even lovely, scantily clad ladies walking around bringing men drinks and $5 hamburgers. Also, if you tipped them enough you could get your picture taken with them in front of one of the cars.

I would've chosen this one. Someone has a sense of humor.

A random stranger came up to me and asked me if the car above, the one running over an infant in Florida State garb, if the roof had been chopped or not. What? You're asking me? I'm wearing sweatpants, a tee shirt and my Bruins cap, does it look like I know anything about cars? I replied, "I like sports. Do you like sports?" He looked at me like I ran over his infant son, then walked away.
Then I saw it. My dream car. A Camaro.

The Great Florida Trip of 2012- Day V

Tony Moschetto — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 06:33:40 GMT

The day began like any other day, filled with hope, optimism and the promise of producing something great in regards to the written word. I awoke feeling good about the night before, fart dream and all. I felt like I moved forward the night before, like I got better, like I did my job.
I woke around 10am, by design, and starting writing the day four blog. A couple of hours later, after completing the blog and catching up on my scrabble and words with friends games, I put on my blue sweat pants, a tee shirt, my Bruins cap, grabbed my notebooks and headed out the door. My plan was to walk down to the Starbucks I stopped into the first night I was in town. Along the way, I'd stop into Bank of America, withdraw some funds and be on my way.
My first step outside I noticed a chill in the air and after a few more steps I contemplated grabbing my hoodie but I decided not to. I knew once I got rolling I'd warm up and I was right. As I walked I thought of all the good things yet to happen and about all the goals I'm going to meet. Better yet, I dreamed about extraordinary accomplishments.
I didn't realize it but I had been walking for almost 40 minutes and no sign of the Bank of America I had seen on a previous night while driving. I began to doubt myself and consulted my phone. It's amazing that I can do that, when in doubt check your Blackberry, it has all the answers. Fortunately, I was on the right path and just three tenths of a mile away. I also realized that the Starbucks I was hoping to go to and get some work done was at least another mile away. By this time I was famished, and if you want to know why read day four and the barbecue incident. Luckily, there was a diner across the street and the name of it had me sold. It was called Fred and Ethel's. I knew exactly what I was going to order before entering, a BLT on rye with fries and that's what I got.
It was delicious. The fries were cooked perfectly, the bacon, the extra pickles and coleslaw were awesome. To top it off, great coffee. I was happy, pleased and most importantly, full.
I sat and people watched. A family came in. They pushed in an old women I'm assuming was the grandmother of the group. Then I assume her son and two grandchildren, or her son, daughter and the daughter's husband. I'm not sure what the relationship was but that's what I'm going with. The old woman looked very old. She could hardly sit up in her wheel chair. She leaned to one side and the woman kept getting up to straighten her out and feed her at the same time. Her son, who was an older man himself, would wipe her face after a few bites. These people were constantly helping all the while eating their own lunches. I've never seen anything like it. Then I began to feel sad. I took off my glasses so I wouldn't have a sharp view of the place. Everything was a blur. I started to get mad because life is cruel sometimes, because that's what this woman was reduced to. It brought back memories of the last time I saw my grandmother, how she didn't look like herself. How she didn't know who she was or how she didn't even know who I was.
I was impressed how this family cared for this woman, taking time to put her first and feed her. They did it matter of factually too. It made me think. Could I do that? I would have to, no question. I left with a feeling of thankfulness and a greater sense of family. No words in the notebook though.
I walked back to the hotel re-planning my afternoon. I'd get a coffee and go to my room and write. I did write a few a ideas but nothing I was proud of. The coffee was good and my thoughts turned towards another show.
The show was at the Port St. Lucie Civic Center in a side ballroom that probably held a couple of hundred people and was close to full. The majority of the crowd, I would say, the average age was fifty something. I got nervous and retreated to my notebook to look for some suitable material. I knew I had to change it up. I felt better and hit the stage. It was an unmitigated disaster and one of the worst sets I've had in a long time. Basically, I ate my cock. Like, really ate it bad. I made the rookie mistake of taking my little black notebook on stage with me. At one point I turned and looked at it because I was bombing hard and maybe there was something on that list that would work. I didn't see anything because I couldn't see any of the words. Well, that's kind of a no-no on a Saturday night and feel like a piece of crap because of it. Being called out on it is even worse. I don't look at notes on stage. I haven't done it in a couple of years. I have no idea why I did it last night.
As I write this, I think of the family at the diner. My little trials and tribulations are put in perspective, they don't matter. It was just one show. I'll wake up tomorrow and head back to work. I'll wake up with the same hope and optimism.

The Great Florida Trip of 2012- Day Fowa

Tony Moschetto — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 16:30:42 GMT

Just a special note...I'm better at writing in the morning, so these accounts are blogged the following day. My mind is clearer in the morning, in fact, a lot of writing books tell you that you should write the first minute you get up. The problem with that is I'm always peeing in the first minute, so I usually starting in the second minute, sometimes on the third minute, depending on how much I had to drink the night before. Today I started on the 49th minute because of last minute wheeling and dealing of setting up the best motel deal for me. And, I can successfully say, I did. But, that's day five material, I'm here to talk about day four.

It occurred to me, yesterday(day 4) that there's a vast difference from being on vacation and working. I'm in Florida to work. I've been here on vacation, so I know the difference. Vacation is fun because you forget about the work, you put it away. That part of the brain is dark, the lights are off, there's nobody home. It feels good and you're at ease. Working, is different. Calls have to be done, goals have to be accomplished and bottom line, money and or important connections have to be made. It's a stress and a bit of a bummer because I'M IN FLORIDA.

It's the routine that counts. Doing the same routine that I do back home is key. It put me into a good place and I feel good this morning. I feel like my old self again. Two things make me feel at home: tennis and comedy. I did both of them yesterday. The tennis was less than stellar but it felt great to be outside amongst the palm trees and hit tennis balls. I do love palm trees.

The comedy portion of last evening was a lot of fun as well. A friend of mine from Boston, who lives here now, introduced me to a local fellow/comedian who kind of acted as my informal guide for the evening. He's a very gregarious and energetic chap who shares the same passion for barbecue as I do. He recommended a place right down the street from where the gig was called, "Slow and Low". Perfect name for a barbecue joint. We met there before the show. Long story short, the ribs were spectacular, just like he said they'd be. We shared many laughs and I'm happy to say I met a new friend here in Florida. Typical guy bonding conversation, it was cool.
The only problem of the night was after I ate. You see, being on the road, your eating routine changes, and for some reason, maybe it was the hot barbecue sauce I smeared all over my juicy succulent baby back ribs, I had to run to the bathroom. It was horrific but I want to make perfectly clear that it didn't diminish the meal whatsoever. It was just having normal good food that did the trick. I thought that was the end of it but little did I know.

As my new friend and I were walking into the establishment where the comedy show was, I innocently squeezed out a slight fart. But, it wasn't quite a fart. In which I exclaimed, "I think I just shit myself!" To which my new friend replied, "Go check it out, dude." Then proceeded to laugh and laugh and laugh. To his credit, he did check on me when I was on the "thrown". I said, "I dodged a bullet, it was just a wet fart." He laughed and almost shit himself. Was it an omen for the comedy show?

Quite. I had a great set, other than a bit of a lull when I did the newer personal material that needs work, but I was pleased nonetheless. My buddy went up and did a guesty and ripped it as well. We celebrated our triumph by having a beer and watching the headliner, a Mr. John Ferrentino, who mixes magic and comedy and is quite good at it.
Well, what happened next was insane. My new friend farted. He owned up to it, which I respect. But, this "thing" was so bad it was good. Good in the sense that it did its job as being gross. You guys know what I'm talking about, right? It's one of those stinkers that 50 years from now I could run into this guy and say, "Remember that fart?" And he'd know exactly what I was talking about. This fart definitely had that, "do you remember where you were" characteristics reminiscent of past horrific events in world history. Oh, this guy's name is Duncan. I won't give his last name but it starts with the letter "J". Duncan J. @funduncan.
One more thing, this fart influenced me. Seriously. I, and this is no lie, had a dream last night that I was at a bar. A dude cut a tremendous fart and people scattered. The next group of people I was talking to, someone did the same and we scattered again. Then, a guy came up to me and asked me if I farted and I said, "Yes, and tell Patrick I said you're welcome." Whatever that means I don't know but I dreamed, I had a dream about disgusting farts that you remember. Crazy. Thanks Duncan. This guy's a good man and I thank him again for the hospitality he showed me.
Here's where I did the show:

The Great Florida Trip of 2012- Day Three

Tony Moschetto — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 15:59:33 GMT

At approximately 11am, I entered the state of Florida. It was a smooth penetration, sorry I couldn't resist the sexual innuendo. I don't know, maybe driving into Florida turned me on a bit, who knows. However, my lust for Florida was quelled when I saw this sign:
Who knew.

What a feeling it was to shred the hoodie and roll down the windows and let the warmth in. I'm talking about the weather now, not sex. There's something that automatically clicks when I'm in this type of weather. It plays tricks on my mind, because all I'm thinking about is the upcoming summer, and that's weird because summer is another five months away. I forget when I get back it'll be winter and that I'll have to wait weeks before I get this feeling again.

What is it with firework stores next to hotels? Last night, I spent the night next to a fireworks outlet and today when I got to the hotel, yes, you guessed it, fireworks store. Why are firework stores open all year round? Are Halloween stores and Christmas stores open all year round? Yes...yes they are. Whoops. There goes that argument about stores being open all year round because of just one big day. I was hoping to find some funny but...wait, no I don't see why firework stores are open all the time, no there's no reason to light an M-80 off in January. Unless. You're a complete and utter douche bag or a gang member. Or both.
I guess down these parts, yeah I said, down these parts, I guess one can tell what a town is like by the amount of firework stores they have. In my hometown we have two strip clubs, so who am I to judge Melbourne, Florida. I'm guessing they have a bail bonds place too?

The Great Florida Trip of 2012- Day Deux

Tony Moschetto — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 05:02:05 GMT

After awhile, long trips begin to change and take on a life of their own. Meaning, after many many hours driving one forgets why they are there in the first place and where they are going. It happens during long stretches of highway, when the scenery is the same for hundreds of miles. It puts you into a trance like state, perhaps into a different dimension. Time passes slowly, that is, if time actually exists. Objects moving faster zoom by. You make out figures, human like figures, non descriptive beings hurling through space and time on some type of journey. Well, that's what I think. How arrogant of me to believe everyone else on the road is partaking in long journey to somewhere they want to be. Or not, who am I to assume.
The best thing I noticed today was a black cow walking down a tree lined dirt path. The path ran along the bottom of a grassy hill. On top of the hill was a brick farm house. Walking close behind the cow was a man. It was interesting because it looked like they were walking together as if by choice. Or, the man was guiding the cow to the pasture after the animal got lost. Either way it was an image I'll remember for a long long time. One day it will be pushed out by another random event, forgotten. Then, when I'm on my death bed, as I'm reviewing all the memories of my life, that image will pop back in. Then, I fart and die. It's how I want to go out.
Also, I heard this song today and it brought back a lot of great memories from my childhood, and it lets you know what era I grew up in. I really love the words and I dedicate it to my girl.
Now, I'm in Hardeeville, South Carolina. I think the guy that founded this town also founded Hardees Hamburgers. I'm not sure I'm just assuming...again. You can read all about the town here.
I don't mean to sound judgmental, but, it has to be, probably, the sketchiest place in America. There are establishments with iron bars outside their windows and a bail bonds place. And, many many colorful characters lurking about, one of which, felt comfortable enough to walk in the middle of the road. I also saw three patrol cars pass by within a five minute period. If all these characteristics don't equal sketchy, I don't know what does.
This is a snapshot of me after an eleven hour trek.