Brad

You'd better wipe that shit-eating-grin off of your face, because this is a sad one! I've been putting off this entry for a while now, but I feel that enough time has passed & I can impartially write about Brad's passing from this earth.

Lots of people just thought that Brad was crazy, but I never bought that. I'm not a shrink by any means, but crazy doesn't explain him. Not to me. I always thought that he was a big, sometimes overly sensitive man-child that just never truly learned the basics as to how people are supposed to act around each other. I always felt that Brad was just born at the wrong time in history. He would've felt right at home on some ancient battlefield or arena slamming an axe into the side of somebody's head. He & William Wallace(Braveheart bitches!) definitely would have gotten along.

Brad arrived on the scene in Ocean City the Summer of '95 where he became a member of the Beach Patrol. He just started coming over the house after that & would stay for days at a time, so we pretty much ended up adopting him. He was an intimidating 6'2, 220 pounds with a crooked nose that made him look like he was on the receiving end of a cast-iron skillet to the face. He was the youngest in our crew & would do anything that we told him to do.

'Jump off of that bridge Brad! Sure thing. No Problemo!'

'Finish that beer bong! Sure thing. No problemo!'

'Take off on that 10 foot wave Brad! Sure thing. No problemo!'

When we surfed, he'd take off on the biggest close-out wave just for shits & giggles. One time he stepped on a huge rusty nail which went completely through his foot right before we were going surfing. Nonchalantly, Brad ran home, grabbed a sandwich bag & duct-tape, then put the baggie over his wounded foot & duct-taped it around his ankle. He hobbled out to the beach & paddled out into the lineup ready to go bloddy bag & all!

He would just take so many chances, it seemed like he truly didn't have any fear or he was just retarded. If you ever had an extended conversation with Brad, you might have found out that for as big & crazy as he seemed, he was truly a kind, sensitive soul & a 'closet intellectual.' I say, 'closet intellectual' because Brad didn't like to let on how smart he really was. One of his favorite sayings was, 'I hate him like I hate books!' This coming from a man who had almost a perfect score on the SATS(He told me.) & could have in-depth conversations about Buddhism, Middle-East Politics, & could freely quote Friedrich Nietsche & philosphy from Voltaire. He just never wanted to apply himself intellectually, he was more interested in gaining experiences & seeing how far he could push himself physically & pharmaceutically. This would unfortunately lead to his undoing.

After the Summer of '97 our Ocean City Crew went our separate ways to find our own paths & adventures, but still work to maintain the beach lifestyle that was so dear to our hearts. Greg & I ended up in San Diego. Brad, Cliffy & Stroh ended up on the North Shore in Hawaii. Those initial years were new, fun & hard for all of us, but moreso on Brad. He was a huge consumer of life & had an extremely addictive personality which unfortunately led him to a drug addiction. I'm not sure what drugs Brad was taking, but I'm not here to judge because I'm no fucking saint in any regards, but we'd hear stories start to trickle in about how Brad was isolating himself on the island & almost being homeless & how pale he'd become. I spoke with him intermittently through these times & you could just tell that something was 'off' about him. There just wasn't the same spark in his voice.

Eventually I made my 1st trip over to the North Shore & ended up staying on Brad's couch for a week of surfing & catching up with old friends. I was kind of taken aback when Brad wrapped his meat hooks around me & lifted me up off of the gound at the airport. He was pale, disheveled with a ZZ Top starter set beard. Things started off well though. He had a Budweiser pounder & a bong waiting for me in his car as we drove over to the North Shore for a quick sunset surf. That session & that evening we drank & it almost seemed like old Ocean City times. He was working part-time in downtown Honolulu, so Stroh & his roommate would have to drive me around to surf the majority of the week & we'd hang out more in the evenings. I was having a blast surfing the North Shore & hiking behind Wiamea falls, but I didn't see nearly enough of Brad as I'd hoped. He kept disappearing for extended periods. Things came to a head my last evening on the island after dinner when I finally asked him if he was still doing drugs. He flipped out on me cursing up a storm & told me to catch a cab to the airport. Eventually he relented & drove me. You could have cut the tension with a butter knife. Finally as I got out of his car at the airport, I spoke up.

'Look Brad. I only asked you the drug question because I'm worried about you. You're my friend & I don't want you to hurt yourself.'

'You don't know my PAIN Biff!'

And then he was gone. That was the last thing that he said to me & the last time that I saw him alive. That conversation haunted me. 'You don't know my PAIN.' It was the way that he enunciated the word pain that scared me. Just what exactly was this pain that he was obviously self-medicating excessively?

It was definitely a fucked up end to what was a great vacation up to that point! About 6 months later Brad e-mailed me & apologized for his behavior. He told me that he was working on taking some community college courses & there was talk of eventually moving over to San Diego to find a better job & catching some Souther California waves with the rest of the Ocean City crew. But then a few months later I received a phone call from a somber sounding Cliffy over in Hawaii.

'Hello?'

'Biff it's Cliff, I have some bad news?'

'What happened?'

'Brad's in the hospital on life support.'

'What the fuck!!! How???'

'He was skating these steep hills outside of Honalulu with out a helmet & he smashed into a car. He had a major head injury. He split his head open so bad that his brain was exposed. He's in a fucking coma & might be brain dead.'

'Oh God no. Not Brad!!'

I always feared that I would eventually get this phone call. He always took too many chances. Cliffy promised to keep me updated on Brad's status & then 3 days later I got the 2nd call. Brad was gone. He was pronounced brain dead & his father had given permission to take him off of life support. Our friend was dead. I was beyond upset. I felt horrible. I racked my brain wondering if there was something more that I could have done to help Brad out. I really wish that I would have called him more. Even though I was 3,500 miles away I could have been more available to him.

What was even harder was the fact that I was tasked with calling our extended Beach Patrol/surfing family to deliver the news of Brad's death. I made about a dozen phone calls the following week having to excruciatingly describe how he had died over & over & over. Finally I just lost it & started crying. He was so fucking young & was just starting to straighten his life out. Why him God? Why did you have to fucking take Brad???????????? Enraged, I grabbed my surfboard & hopped into my car. I drove up to my favorite break & paddled out. It was completely flat, but I didn't care. I needed to do something, anything! I looked up at the sky with tears in my eyes & screamed out,

'Hey you big, goofy sonofabitch! That's right Brad I'm talking to you! I don't know what else to do but surf for you, so the least you can do is give me some fucking waves so that I can do that!!!!!!!'

I then turned my attention with a steeled focus out to the reddish hued horizon & waited. Within 5 minutes, perfect 4-6 foot set waves started rolling in. I ended up surfing for over 3 hours until I was exhausted & my arms were like wet noodles. I could honestly feel his presence with me that afternoon as I rode wave after wave in honor of my friend.

I'd like to finish this entry off with one of my favorite Brad stories from Costa Rica.

We had just finished off a 45-day maration surf trip all through the western coastline of Costa Rica & were boarding our flight back to the states. It was an amazing experince & none of us really wanted to leave(Hell, I could have done a year easily down there!), but the real-world(If you call college life real!!!) beckoned & we had to answer it's call. We all filed into our prospective seats Greg & I in the front & Brad, Conlin & Scott behind us. Before the flight had even taken off, Brad had downed 3-4 rum & cokes & was getting rowdy or as we liked to call Rowdy Brad, 'Waking the Baby!' You get free drinks on international flights & we took full advantage of this luxury! Brad & Conling began shooting spitballs, boogers & phlem at Greg & I from behind which ignited kind of a mini-food fight. This went on for a good 5-10 minutes until a small, perplexed man that actually looked like the Monopoly guy w/the spectacle, approcahed us & said,

'Gentlemen & I use that term loosley, you're going to have to calm down or I will be forced to log a complaint!'

Brad took one look at Monopoly Guy & let out a bellowing laugh.

'Dude I shit bigger than you. I am a gentleman so go fuck yourself!!!'

Incensed & obvioulsy imasculated from Brad's comments, Monopoly Guys grabbed a steward & demanded a seat as far way from the heathens as possible! The steward took one look at our motley crew, relented & moved Monoply Guy up to 1st class for the flight. Not a bad trade-off. Then the steward who was visibly terrified of us gingerly approched our seats & meekly retorted,

'Now guys! C'mon I know it's exciting being in a foreign country & all but you have to behave yourself! Please stop being so loud & throwing food!'

This didn't sit well with a clearly inebriated Brad at all. So he decided to let the steward know about it.

'Fuck that guy! He insulted my intelligence & I'm going to kick his ass! Could you tell him that when we get to Miami airport that I'm going to break his nose at the baggage claim?'

(Now bear in mind this was December 1996, long before the events of September 11th 2001. Nowadays we'd have been kicked off of the flight & locked up!)

The steward looked like he was about to faint at this point, so I stood up & jumped into the conversation.

'Our friend is clearly drunk & there's going to be no nose breakings or ass-kickings of any kind I can assure you!'

This seemed to please the steward. He walked away & I turned around to yell at Brad, but at this point he was laughing uncontrollably with such a look of satisfaction on his face that all I could do was laugh too. By the time we reached Miami Brad had patched things up with Monopoly Guy to the point that they hugged. That's the thing about Brad, he was always quick to fly off the handle, but the 1st to apologize. Just a misunderstood gentle(Sometimes!) giant!

If one good thing came out of Brad's death, I do my best nowadays to keep in touch with my friends & always return phone calls. You just never know when their time might be up(Or yours!) & then that last opportunity is gone.

I miss my friend Brad. But knowing that he's somewhere up in Heaven right now pissing off God, makes me smile!

Fade to black........

Hot Garbage

What do you think of when someone utters the phrase 'Hot Garbage???' Something grotesque, repulsive & stinky perhaps?

The Urban Dictionary definition of Hot Garbage is as follows:

'An extremely foul smelling fart, usually created by a mix of beer & foods including, but not limited to garlic, broccoli & beans, that slowly creeps across a room & lingers in the nostrils. Usually of the Silent But Deadly variety. Reminds you of the vicious, rotting scent of your trash cans waiting to be picked up on the hottest day of summer.-My stomach is a mess today. Can you smell that hot garbage?'

That extremely detail-oriented definition sure paints a rosy picture doesn't it? Well today's yarn of incredibly(Unfortunately!) true(With slightly altered names & locations to protect the guilty!!!) exposition is all about how the term, Hot Garbage was introduced into my vernacular(And is brought to you by the letter E!).

During my tenure in Philadelphia(One year & ten months to be exact!), the majority of my weekends consisted of Drinking at night & driving to LBI on the Jersey Shore to surf whatever waves the Atlantic Ocean deemed fit to spit out to us during the day. This short, little drive to the coast was about an hour & a half each way. When you shove enough hungover(Sometimes still drunk!) guys into a car for a surf trip, with little sleep & even less common sense, interesting events can happen!

These surf excursions were how our weekends(At least during the daytime!) were spent. I always likened them to male-bonding sandwiches that were stuffed with delicious waves with extra sea-salt added as flavor! Rain or shine. Snow, sleet or hail, this was standard modus operandi. We had nothing else better to do. We weren't the most domesticated lot! A weekend without a surf trip really wasn't considered a weekend at all in our eyes. Then there was the horrible five-day-wait until next Saturday to get those precious waves that would carry you through the tedium ad nauseum which was our mundane work week. Pranks & bodily functions/noises were not only tolerated, but encouraged. This was our entertainment during the drive to kill time. Dick & fart jokes were all the rage. No topic was ever taboo. Our goal was to 'out-gross' each other & by any means necessary & just laugh as often as humanly possible.

One particular Saturday my roommate Dennis & I woke up hungover on a sunny yet brisk morning & we were stoked! All of the surf forcasts were calling clean 4-6 feet waves. 4-6 feet in the sufing world is pretty much pefection. Fun, rideable waves with long workable lines. It doesn't get much better than this! I was actually up a little before Dennis, so I wolfed down some eggs & toast for some paddling energy. A short while later Dennis was up. Much to his chagrin, I rushed him out of the door before he could eat anything because I really wanted to get on the road. The thought of all of those beautiful waves not being ridden by yours truly was just too much to bear!

On the drive down, I was taking much pleasure in the fact that Dennis was more hungover than I was & his stomach was on the wash-cycle making him simultaneously nauseous & hungry. About 3/4 of the way to the beach, Dennis decides to pull into a McDonald's to relieve himself. That left me in the car, pissed off because I could smell the saltwater in the air at this point which had me completely frothing at the mouth! I was panting like a junkie that needed a fix. I had an extremely stressful work week & needed my surfing release! After about ten minutes, which seemed like an eternity to me, I decided to throw caution to the wind. I hopped out of the car with a purpose, I was going to fuck with Dennis in the bathroom for making me wait in the stupid McDonald's parking lot which was keeping me from my precious waves!

I stormed into the bathroom & checked out the scene. There was one nasty looking urinal & right beside it was the blue divider for the toilet. It was closed & locked. I surmised that Dennis was still taking care of hus business, so I began pounding on the door playing 'Wipe-Out' with my fists.

'What the fuck are you doing in there Dennis! Did you fall in??? What did you eat? It smells like Hot-Garbage! Your ass smells like fucking Hot-Garbage!!!!'

BOOM-BOOM!

I began pounding harder & harder on the stall door.

'HOT-GARBAGE!!!!!'

BOOM-BOOM!

'DENNIS SMELLS LIKE HOT-GARBAGE!!!!'

BOOM-BOOM!

You would think that my pummeling of the stall Dennis would say something. Perhaps yell out a 'Fuck You' or 'Stop It Asshole1' But there was no retort. This perplexed me.

'Say something you silly bastard!'

Nothing. You could hear a pin drop at this point.

I really wanted to provoke a reaction, so surveyed my surroundings once again & saw a full trash can off to my left.

'AIR-RAID!!!!!'

I began lobbing half-eaten burgers, fries, & snot rags over the top of the bathroom stall like they were grenades.

Still nothing.

I went back to the trash & found the cherry for the top of my Hot-Garbage birthday cake, a dirty diaper full of baby shit!

I started to gag as soon as I picked up that bio-hazard of a diaper & blindly tossed the bomb over the stall.

Still nothing.

'That's it! I'm fucking you up!'

BOOOOM!

I kicked in the stall door & to my horror I found a small Mexican man cowered in the fetal position in the corner beside the toilet. He had some baby shit smeared on his cheek & shoulder. I'm not sure who was more terrified @ this point, him or me.

'I no Dennis!'

'I no Dennis!'

'Please no hurt me!!!!!'

Do you remember that scene in the movie 'Animal House' when Bluto, D-Day & Flounder realize that the horse in Dean Wormer's office just had a heart attack & died? Remember how they ran out of the building screaming? That was me. I turned away from the little baby-shit-covered Mexican & bolted out of the McDonald's.

'OH SHIT!OH SHIT!OH SHIT!OH SHIT!OH SHIT!OH SHIT!OH SHIT!'

I was screaming like a little girl running across the parking lot. I did a 'Dukes of Hazzard' hip-slide across the car & dove into the passenger seat. I was cowered down below the dash shaking uncontrllably when Dennis finally came back.

'Um Biff...why are you on the floor???'

'Dude, where the fuck were you!???'

'I took a piss & then decided to grab an Egg McMuffin to go. Was there any particular reason that you ran out of the McDobald's bathroom screaming bloody-murder???'

'Please turn on the car & start driving & I promise I'll explain everything. Just fucking drive right now!!!!'

By the time that I finished telling Dennis the story, he was luaghing uncontrollably & was randomly yelling, 'Hot-Garbage!'

I can laugh about it now, but at the time, I had myself convinced that I was going to be arrested. As we drove the rest of the way to the beach, I was picturing myself in a holding cell with hardened criminals.

'What are you in here for?'

'Assault & Battery on a Mexican midget with baby shit.'

To this day, Dennis still explodes with uncontrollable laughter anytime someone utters, 'Hot-Garbage!'