Brain Dump
A Newsletter Dedicated to Independent Thinking, Storytelling, and the Sharing of thoughts and Ideas.
Edition Nine. Friday, May 3, 2024.
Brain Dump publishes Monday, Wednesday, and Friday each week, with supplementals when I feel my creative juices surging.
Ask Eleanor, Your Ravishingly Beautiful Advice Columnist
The Power of a Hug. Have you Hugged your Babies Today?
Sober Dump: 2x4 Justice–A Justified Case of Revenge. By Anthony P. Santelli.
Happy cloudy Friday morning in Chicago.
It’s been a long week, as usual, and I’m glad to report I’m still six feet above ground. This morning Eleanor answers questions from an adult child. I wrote about the power of a hug, and my friend Anthony submitted his personal essay on revenge. In this case: Justified.
I hope you enjoy it.
Ask Eleanor, Your Ravishingly Beautiful Advice Columnist. May 3, 2024
It’s time to grow up and join the world.
Dear Eleanor,
I was recently fired from my job for excessive tardiness (I drink a lot) and was forced to move back home. It’s been an absolute exercise in humility. My dad continues to berate me about my lifestyle of excess, saying that I go out too much, spend more money than I earn, and that I’m living a hedonistic lifestyle that’s going to usher me into an early grave.
He told me to grow up!
He and my mother almost refused to let me move back in with them, saying I could use a little tough love to teach me responsibility. I took it as a metaphorical slap in the face. Neither of them are speaking to me at the moment.
To be fair, most of what they say is true, but at thirty-two years old, I feel I’m at an age where I should be able to go out to the bars, meet people, and sow my oats. I’m not ready to settle down.
I’m struggling with the job hunt, and it's been fruitless so far. I miss my old lifestyle.
To add insult to injury, my parents recently retired and have enough money, and yet they’re forcing me to pay them rent from my unemployment check to live in my old bedroom.
Eleanor, what kind of parents do that to their children?
Signed: Stimulus-seeking party boy from Pittsburg.
Dear Lazy Ass from Fantasyland.
My little darling,
You asked, so now I’m going to tell you. At thirty-two, you are not a child. I fear your parents are a little late in teaching you the fundamentals of responsibility. You see, dear, at your age, you should be well on your way to reaping the fruits of your wild oats crop, not sowing them. Losing your job because your lifestyle leaves you hungover most mornings indicates escapism and more profound problems. From what? That’s a mystery only you can uncover with the help of a skilled professional or recovery group.
You state that it’s unfair that your retired parents should allow you to live in your former bedroom free of charge. In essence, if they gave you a free stay and with your lack of responsibility, this grift might transform you into a perpetual welfare-receiving ward of their estate. Darling, if your parents are retiring, I’m confident the last thing they want to do is raise another child.
Your situation is unacceptable for a twenty-one-year-old, let alone a thirty-two-year-old man.
Your parents have enough money to retire because they did not squander their resources on freeloaders and foolish spending. Why should they sacrifice their hard-earned savings and investments–their security blanket, for you? Because you're their son? No, no, no, my little drama prince. Tough love is what you need; you’re lucky you have a roof over your head.
Albert Einstein once said failure and deprivation are the best educators and purifiers.
From that wise quote, I believe that failure and deprivation are the best teachers and healers. They reflect a profound truth about the human condition: it is often through adversity that we grow most significantly.
Learn and sacrifice, my love.
You now have the rare opportunity to reevaluate your immature nature, dear. Through reflection, you are in a position to feel the struggle of personal failure and teach yourself to adapt to a new kind of life that will reward your budding sense of responsibility by putting away childish ways and living the role of an adult.
Please consider my words and heed them, Lazy Ass, It’s never too late to grow up.
Hugs and kisses.
Eleanor
The Power of a Hug.
Did you Hug your Babies Today?
Image Credit: Patricia Prudente–Unsplash.
Last night, I met with a good friend who is experiencing a rough patch in his marriage to his wife, who is also a good friend of mine. We talked for a significant amount of time while I lent an objective ear and tried to give what advice I could based on whatever wisdom I’d picked up throughout my life.
Much of his concern is for the mental well-being of his children witnessing their marital discord. Having come from a troubled home, I understand that as children, we all come into the world with brains akin to unprogrammed computers, eager to download as many programs as possible on our way to maturity and adulthood.
Good and bad programs are multi-generational.
When we download corrupt data to a computer, the computer crashes. When we download corrupt data to a child, the child fails to thrive with a healthy mind and may experience emotional problems mimicking those of their parents, or worse, as they grow into adulthood. In many cases, this is a root cause of substance abuse and addiction.
It becomes an escape.
After our discussion, I hugged him, affirming my support and friendship. I thought about our hug for the rest of the evening. I couldn’t always do it, but I’m happy I can today.
Growing up in the 1970s and 80s, the cloister of people I called my family and friends did not hug. God forbid a man hug another man. A firm handshake, a contest of grip strength, determined brotherhood, and a healthy testosterone level.
Hugging is what women and sissies do.
I’m happy I don’t live in that world anymore. While I firmly believe men should be firm, stalwart protectors of the family, the ability to provide emotional support is a strength that completes the package and bolsters everything else.
Human-to-human touch relieves stress, improves our mood, increases trust and a sense of empathy, improves communication, heals emotional wounds, and ultimately tells another person you love them and care.
The next time I am with my friend, and he tells me about his marital problems, I will encourage him to grab his wife, embrace her in a hug, tell her how much he loves her, and make sure they do it in front of the children.
Next stop–hug the babies and end a cycle of bad programming.
Sober Dump
2x4 Justice: A Case of Revenge
A Sobering personal essay by Anthony P. Santelli.
Image Credit: Unsplash
My mother married into the mob when I was seven years old. My stepfather was a contradiction of opposing forces. On the one hand, he supplied the fun my alcoholic father was incapable of providing. My stepdad Vinny Camarari took me fishing, taught me to swim, bought me a mitt, and showed me how to catch a baseball like a pro–when he was in a good mood.
Those times were rare.
On the other hand, this gangster, an arsonist, would also beat me in the head with a clenched fist if I forgot to take out the trash or make my bed. If it were only his fist, I got off easy.
Spare the 2x4, spoil the skinny kid was his mantra.
There would be no wimp living in his house; after all, he burnt his left hand, setting the restaurant on fire that killed a night janitor and paid for our two flat. Arson paid well; his paycheck came in a brown paper bag filled with stacks of Benjamin Franklins.
When he was really mad at me, he kept a 2x4 wooden plank by the garage to administer corporal justice to my back, legs, and ass. Occasionally, the rear of my head played interference.
His rage knew no bounds and held no compassion.
Once, on a return from a trip from Florida, he obtained (he never paid for anything) one thousand sticks of dynamite hidden in old-fashioned steel milk jugs to sell to the Italian Mob-arati, as he called his bosses. He loaded the explosives in our garage and warned me not to go into it, threatening me with a 2x4 beating if he caught me snooping around. He then whacked me across the head with his fist as a warning.
Tell that to an overly curious fourteen-year-old boy with a knot on his head and an ax to grind. Sure, okay, Vinny—no snooping for me–Right. I snooped.
Undoubtedly, the piece of shit wouldn’t miss one stick of dynamite. Orlando, my next-door best friend, and I took the stick from the milk jug and went into an alley a block from us. We lit the explosive, threw it down an alley drainage sewer, and ran like hell. The resulting explosion was heard for miles, shattered windows, and sent the iron sewer lid over to the next street, where it landed atop Mrs. Muscanaro’s lemon-yellow 1974 Buick LeSabre, blowing out the windows and totaling her car.
Orlando and I ran home. He went inside his house, and I sat on our front porch and watched as it seemed every cop in the city, including huge trucks with Bomb Squad displays, swarmed our neighborhood.
Vinny had gone out to investigate the explosion before Orlando and I returned, so when I saw him coming back up the street, his scowl sent chills down my spine. I don’t know how he knew it was me, but he grabbed me by the neck, dragged me into the backyard, and shoved me up against the garage. He then punched me in the face so hard it knocked me unconscious.
When I came to, I looked up from the ground. Vinny was facing away from me, lighting a Bel Air cigarette, the pack with white clouds on a sky-blue background. I had had enough of him, I thought. Vinny took a deep drag from the cigarette and blew the smoke into the night sky, unaware I had come to.
I looked at the 2x4 next to me, leaning against the garage. I stood up, grabbed the piece of wood, and slammed it so hard into the back of his head that I knocked him out cold. I ran as fast as possible to Orlando’s house and told his mother what happened. She called the police, and I told them everything when they arrived. The last time I saw Vinny Camarari, he was bleeding from the head, handcuffed, and being stuffed into the back of a squad car.
If essays had epilogues, this one would read: The scumbag turned states evidence against the mob and, as a reward, was relocated somewhere with a new name and a new life.
Life may seem unfair, but at least I got my revenge.
The end.
Have a great weekend, Everyone!
Joe.