Riverbank Rooms

Caveat: I hesitate to write about people someone might recognize later. Just trust me that the only reason I don't crucify everyone I come into contact with is because I am being polite. If you consider yourself above my new housemates then take a good look in the mirror. If you want your nose to stay in the same location you will not peak ill of my friends. With that in mind, enjoy!

Within the first five minutes of signing my rental agreement at Riverside Rooms I was reading a book called “Chicken Soup for the Prisoner’s Soul”. Really, I was just looking at it to distract me from the conversation going on in front of me,

Nancy: They called Missy the crack whore of Laconia. She was out on the street swinging a baseball bat.
Missy: I only beat that man because he choked me.
Nancy: Haw!
Missy: In court he accused me of fucking his parole officer, stealing from him, smoking crack. None of that was true.
Nancy: Haw!
Missy: On the way out of court I looked at his parole officer and said ‘I wouldn’t mind fucking you, precious.’
Nancy: Haw!

I couldn’t pay attention to the book I was looking at but the very fact there is a chicken soup edition targeting prison inmates, and that edition was in the give-and-take library at Riverside Rooms, disturbed me. This wasn’t prison but I suspected most of the residents would know the difference. A woman, Alice, walked in. She had a dozen impressive tattoos on her arms and a “Laconia Bike Week” t shirt.

Alice: I don’t mind sharing my shit. Just put it back. And I don’t mind sharing my food.
Oggy: That’s awful considerate of you.
Alice: I work the 3am shift, so don’t party all night.
Oggy: Where? I’m looking for work.
Alice: McDonalds. You get free food but I get sick when I eat there. I like to cook. I can ask my manager if they got an opening.

I said nothing as Alice tossed a flank steak into a bed of onions.

Alice: Who stole my measuring cup? Nancy, did you pawn that off for crack?
Nancy: Haw!
Missy: I got it.
Alice: Oggy, you in 26?
Oggy: Yes.
Alice: That was Doug’s room. He’s in jail now.
Missy: Doug’s an idiot. I told him to stay clean.
Nancy: Haw!
Alice: They got him. That’s it. You like steak, Oggy?
Oggy: Yeah. I eat anything.

When Missy’s back is turned (she’s the house manager) Alice smokes a ghost joint with her fingers to her lips and raises her eyebrows. I shrug and make a non-committal expression. Alice nods and flips the steak. I turn to go. I almost get out the door when Missy says something about her peptic ulcer. I feel obliged to show some sympathy but the truth is that I’m not feeling too good myself. As I nod slowly I examine the door keys Missy has just given me in exchange for $167. The keychain has a blue plastic tag attached. At first I thought it was a bank gift or an airline souvenir. Upon closer examination I read “Clean & Serene For Six Months” The other side says “NA”.

Now, this is the first time I have really been in the house and this is my first introduction to the residents and it seems completely custoMissy to hand out front door keys attached to a Narcotics Anonymous keychain. You don’t get one of those keychains because you smoked a little pot back in high school. No, you’ve got to get married to crack or cocaine or heroin or meth and then petition for a divorce. But crystal meth doesn’t recognize divorce petitions like the Vatican doesn’t recognize gay marriages. So you go to NA, a counselor between you and the meth.
You say to the meth, “I really don’t think this is working out.”
And the meth says, “That’s because you’re trying to break us up. You’re nothing without me.”
And you believe the meth because abstaining is actually causing more problems than using.
The meth continues, “Now go back home and do a line. You’ll feel so much better.” And the meth is telling the truth and is, honestly, an authority on feeling better, so why shouldn’t you do as you’re told? Furthermore, the meth is the only one who seems to care how you feel while everyone else just wants you to do things that are so boring. Although, there is that court ordered drug counseling to consider…
“Fuck the court!” Says the meth. “Where were they when you needed them? They aren’t your friend. I’m your friend.”
Again, the meth is right. The court wasn’t there when you needed them but was like Batman and Robin when you just wanted to be left alone. Why should you listen to them?
That’s where NA comes in and tells you that you are powerless over meth, which is true, and that by surrendering yourself to your higher power you stand a chance of getting the divorce you want. After a six month separation you receive this keychain as a statement of your accomplishment and also as a reminder that meth is waiting for you a few blocks away and would be happy to reunite. Every time you enter Riverside Rooms you see that keychain and remember that the divorce is final.

This keychain speaks volumes about my new home because first, it belonged to someone who lived here and second because they didn’t take it off. There is no room for pleasantries. The world ain’t perfect. We are all in survival mode now and the days of matching sheets are over. Everyone is in agreement: this is the house where you come to terms with your limitations.

As Missy said to me moments earlier,

Missy: My biological mother is dying. Know what I told her?
Oggy: What?
Missy: I hope you get to heaven. That’s it. 18 foster homes in 16 years and she wants me to care? No.

This is the house where you finally write off your estranged son, your ex wife or your biological mother. If you haven’t quit smoking by the time you get here then you ain’t ever going to quit smoking. End of story. You’ll die a smoking fool. Whatever loose ends you drag into this house are going to stay loose ends and it is just better to let them go. You want to get back the figure you had in 1998? You won’t. Fuck it. Smoke some pot. Work at a valve factory. Sleep when you can. The dream is over. Eat a cold tv dinner. Living is for the young and you, my friend, are not young. The only thing you can do is stay warm until your peptic ulcer ruptures. You’ve been miserable, no doubt, for years before you end up here. But opening your crooked door and sitting down on your sagging mattress finally allows you to be ok with your misery. Now it is justified. Look around you; you should be miserable. There will be no prince with your slipper, no high school sweetheart with a promise ring, no returning soldier to take you away. What is gone is lost forever and what you have is right in front of your eyes. There will be no estate sales when you die. Your personal effects will go straight to the Goodwill donation bin in trash bags.

Before you arrived you would look in the mirror and do a dozen things to fix your sad reflection. But you don’t do that at Riverside Rooms. You just look in the mirror to make sure you don’t have any blood on your chin.

Oggy: I gotta get some boxes.
Missy: Ok, babe. You let me know if you need anything.
Alice: And don’t piss on the toilet seat.
Nancy: Haw!

what do you really want to do with your life?

sooner or later we all come to the closed down memorial bridge that represents our fucked up rusty life...
You can walk down lane A, walk down lane B or just jump over the side and see what happens.





I've spent more time in the last month looking at career paths then I ever did in my entire life. and it is just hard to decide one path over another. I think I can do all of them but I suspect that isn't true. I decided to go to HSU for music because I felt my whole life was in front of me and there would be time to do everything and what I felt was missing most was an understanding of music. I played the guitar and had no idea what I was doing but I knew that once I figured it out then I would blaze away. So in 6 years I got a 4 year degree in music. I see now that although that was necessary for me to understand new things fast (ha!) and to demonstrate how serious I was...I think about one semester or two of theory and musicianship would have been ok. I didn't need to analyze Stravinsky or Bartok concertos. And after it was over one thing led to another and one interest led to another and now I'm back to where I started like 10 years ago looking for a career path. I don't feel anything is really missing from my life like I did with music. I've learned a little and think I don't need a two year degree in advanced auto mechanics. I can just take a few classes...or maybe just rescue an old truck or motorcycle and learn everything I want to know. So that's an easy dream to rearrange.
Now the thing that has caught my attention in the last two years is solar electricity. alternative forms of energy. I meant to track down a solar guru living in Niland on the slab city. but it didn't happen. So I wanted to take a class on solar energy. and then there is this program at a NH community college...energy services and technology...that includes conservation and solar and electronics and is way more dynamic than fixing brakes and carbuerators...AND has career opportunities (energy conservation manager, Energy Guru) that look to be the way of the future.
I don't want to lose my identity as a gypsy and iconoclast and guitar playing motorcycle mechanic but this energy services program looks like it could be a path that works. I just wonder what people do when they decide on one path over another. And I wonder if you have found that. There is always time to do something, but there isn't time to do everything. It's agony that I can't take a beading class AND an Indian Cooking class. It's so unfair. Who makes the rules about the time we have alloted to us. Isn't there some kind of application I can fill out that will waive the time requirements on my life? It would be so easy. Just stop the clock and let me do all these things. I don't see the problem with that.
what do you think?

Stratham Hill: refuge for the unwanted

The results are in: 100% of Portsmouth disapproves of my lifestyle. I feel like a flagrantly gay man in a catholic church. Maybe if I painted my van green then they would get the idea that it is all about conserving resources. But I feel that when you start painting vans green or putting a bumper sticker that says, "Sleeping in a van doesn't kill arctic wolves. Shopping at Target does." then you have crossed the line. I'm not here to preach. I know the wolves are doomed. But I want to know if it is even possible to live in a way the wolf would approve of. I think it is possible but it won't be in Portsmouth.

After getting run out of Portsmouth by the witch hunt brigade I went to Stratham Hill to cast a homeless hex on the town. I did so by burning a copy of the Homeless Treatise "Waiting for Godot" and chanting "May the homeless of the world come to your door. May the piece worker sewing your Target brand capri pants be buried under your back porch. May your Starbucks latte be too bitter to drink."

We'll see if it works.

I read some graffiti up there on the top platform that said, "John did it with Megan here." and in a different and less weathered marker "I did it here with Megan too." Interesting...Megan sounds like a girl who knows how to have a good time.

there were some other good remarks but that's the only one that stood out.

The memorial bridge

how many times I played around on this gun. It was only slightly less cool than the one at Ft. Stark that is now gone.



The memorial bridge is closed. It's rusting to pieces. I walked across it the other morning to get a slice of pizza at the badger island pizzeria.




The soldiers "participated" in the first world war. I think that is a little euphemistic. Right? participated? But what other word can you use? They fought and died or survived. It wasn't a community bake sale.




Here's to all the vets. Oggy supports the troops.

Fitz John Porter

This statue is over at the North Mill Pond in Portsmouth. Old Fitzy had a long career in the military, from the Mexican to the Civil War. But something happened that had him "cashiered".
It's right there on his plaque. What is being cashiered? I went and checked it out and it is even worse than court marshaled , it is a degradation ceremony. So Fitzy had his sword broken or his medals thrown on the ground. Maybe he got slapped or publicly disrespected. Anyway, it doesn't happen much. But the interesting thing is that Fitzy's cause was taken up by Pres. Hayes and Pres. Grant and finally Pres. Cleveland absolved him of whatever it was he did and erased the cashiering.



I'll save you a trip to wikipedia. Basically, war is hell. Porter had an order to charge Stonewall Jackson's army at the second Bull Run in the summer of 1862. Porter hesitated. Then when he was ordered again he complied and his 5000 union troops ran into 30000 rebels. Because of the hesitation and subsequent defeat he was the scapegoat for the loss of life and so got booted out of the army. They called it cashiering in 1904, the year the plaque was made, because he was insubordinate. Anyway, that's the story of the guy on the horse near the South Mill Pond. I also saw a chipmunk run across the road, an equally heroic deed, but no statues have yet been comissioned.