3 Lessons From Unexpected Places

Frankie Numbnuts, A You Suck Karen, David Bowie and Enormous Middle-Aged Breasts

Frankie Numbnuts

That’s what I remember him as.

In reality, his name was “Frankie Nu-Something-Italian.” But he was a numbnuts and I am not that original, so there you have it.

Frankie Numbnuts, while I never met him, was without a doubt “one of those” — whom my veteran grandfather would make fun of for being soft. Frankie couldn’t walk uphill once in wilderness gear, let alone both ways barefoot in the snow, for anything.

He was interested in one of my friends. While never confirmed from her, it is safe to say she wasn’t interested in him, but he would incessantly post on her Myspace, and then her Facebook.

I forget why I would see the posts he would make on his own page. Probably because he would post something numb-nutty on her social media which would result in me clicking through to his page if I was in the mood for some self-abuse.

Which of course, was far more often than it ever should be.

The vast majority of the time, his posts would exclusively consist of…

A) Whiny rants about how he wished he was born decades earlier, when women had morals and were chaste and pure. How his old soul didn’t fit in with the dating landscape or the immorality and venery representative of women in the mid-to-late 2000s.

B) Something related to current technologies. Getting a new phone, his new car his parents bought for him, his job that only existed because of current technologies, and other very first world and very mid-to-late 2000s problems.

With, of course, no awareness to the hypocrisy or contradictions of the two primary and sometimes only things he was posting about.

But Frankie Numbnuts was also “one of those” who always aspired to circumstances of which he was not privy to, because of course, it was the circumstances responsible for all of his shortcomings, never his own.

If only the women were different like in the 50s, his complete numbnuttery would be absolved, because the women were different then.

Little did he know that it wouldn’t matter because the men of that time would have beat the absolute shit out of his softer than room temperature butter, ass.

He was the catalyst for my first formal forays into actively practicing gratitude and meditation.

Whenever I am having thoughts along the lines of “wishing the times were different” I think back to Frankie Numbnuts and quickly pass by those thoughts.

Partially because pining for circumstances or situations other than your own does no one any good and solves absolutely nothing.

But also, because I never want to be anything that resembles Frankie Numbnuts.

Karen and “You Suck”

During Little League baseball, somewhere in timeframe of 6th-8th grade, in one of the pre-game warm-ups, there was a kid on the other team who was incessantly spouting obscenities' at us and inexplicably derogatory things about our mothers.

Though, “You suck” was the one repeated most.

It didn’t last terribly long, though longer than logic would dictate however, because it was only a short time before we were up by quite a few runs and the game was not a close one.

I want to say the mercy rule was enforced, but cannot confirm.

After the game, as everyone was leaving, was the first time I had come into close quarters with him.

He was walking close enough to his mom (Karen, of course), that I should have been aware of such, and I said to him, “Who sucks now, Bitch?!”

Now when I say that, I am 99% sure I didn’t say bitch and just said, “Who sucks now?” With possibly something about only talking shit when you can actually back up what you are saying.

Somehow this is over 20 years ago and I didn’t have a journal/daily writing system yet for finer details.

I expected him to not be a little bitch, but to no surprise in hindsight, the tough guy that he is, starts actual tears crying and tells Karen what I said.

Of course, with no context of his earlier vitriol.

Karen begins to karen all over me, screaming as if her son had just been murdered in cold blood at her feet.

I didn’t know whether I was more confused that this was actually happening or more grossed out that spit from her screams was getting on my face.

My dad, unfortunately in this instance was not just my dad but also the manager Karen would be asking for.

He was legitimately the coach of our baseball team. And somehow had not heard Male Karen Jr during the pre-game.

Karen’s verbal assault warrants his presence and he asks what happened. Not to me, but to Karen, who mid short hair adjustment spits that I said her son sucked.

My dad went on to verbally assault me with no words, not talk to me, and beat me mercilessly for a few days.

When I say beat me mercilessly, it was with “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed” fists though, not actual fists or physical strikes.

Looking back, I don’t know if there is…

A) No regret
B) Regret for not choosing to simply not say anything at all
C) Regret for not headkicking that little piece of shit Jr Karen… or at least setting Paul Stabile up to kick his ass later.

If my dad had let me explain my side, he would say it didn’t matter and that we were above that, that we let our actions do the talking.

He is probably right but fuck that kid.

David Bowie and the Enormous Middle-Aged Breasts

My Uncle JT would often get me gifts that were kind of unexpected and often the kind that you didn’t really appreciate until after the fact. He wasn’t my Uncle by blood, but my dad’s childhood best friend who we called Uncle.

The previous November, 7 months prior to when this story occurred, was my 18th birthday. Along with a gift, he had given me a card that included a lengthy letter about how he considered me the son he never had and even though on my next birthday, I would be at college somewhere, that he was always a phone call away.

A gift that occurred with a certain level of frequency were concerts. A memorable one was a Beach Boys concert in which the “opening act” was Credence Clearwater Revival.

The most memorable was a David Bowie concert. A gift for my High School graduation.

All my friends who I didn’t really like and weren’t actually my friends said that it was too old and wasn’t cool. And I may have believed them at first. Uncle JT said there ignorance was not our responsibility. The words may have been something along the lines of, “Fucking stupid people’s opinions shouldn’t be something we worry about.”

Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to.

I definitely didn’t believe them after I went and it was cool as fuck, not just for the story that follows but also the concert itself, and I realized that my friends who weren’t my friends were probably the ones that weren’t cool, and that their ignorance was indeed not our responsibility. And I called one of my best friends, Uncle.


With the Beach Boys, I not only knew who they were but knew some of the things they had done, even beyond what one learned from Full House.

But David Bowie… At the time, I likely didn’t know much more about him other than his name, that he made music, and when Chandler on “Friends” made me laugh with his rendition of ‘Ground Control to Major Tom’ and I asked someone what the fuck that was from.

And I certainly didn’t know the kind of glorious fucking weirdos that went to a David Bowie concert at Jones Beach.

Realistically, I fit right in because not only was I probably older than most my age, but weirder and more awkward too. If the shoe fits.

Spaceships, a lot of different colors, and androgyny abound, the part I remember most was how many “middle-aged” boobs I would see.

Middle-aged in this instance probably inaccurately encompasses anyone double my age at the time and up. I actually have no idea how old most of those breasts were. They ranged from “damn! look at those!” to cringe-y to whole story worthy, well one pair anyway…

Flashing and throwing bras at David Bowie was indeed a thing, and I saw more double-my-age+ naked breasts than I’d ever seen in my life combined up until that point.

And for that matter, until this day also.

Here, we come to my favorite set of middle-age boobs.

That’s what we called her. Uncle JT having done the naming because I wasn’t that creative.

Between 15–20 feet diagonally away from us, was a woman who looked like she was drawn by an anime artist who had both a bias for the thicker side of women and had drank a little too much before drawing.

Though we never saw her actually standing as she sat perched atop a man’s shoulders a la a game of chicken, she would have stood somewhere in the 5'0" range.

Uncle JT described her as “50% tits.” Shortly after, bestowing her nickname.

It wouldn’t be accurate to describe her as overweight, but she was wider than she was narrow, particularly in the shoulders and hips, though her waist and neck petite by comparison.

Knowing what I know now as a movement professional, she was no doubt destined for a future of neck, back, and likely ankle pain from her gravity bending proportions.

She initially stood out due to a combination of…

A) The enormity of her bust.
B) Her lack of torso length and overall height, adding to said enormity - in what no doubt was a custom bra size - hanging mere centimeters atop the man’s head. He did not have the clearance to extend or arch his neck in any way. Had it been daytime, his face would have been completely in the shade.
C) How ridiculously long and often he had had her on his shoulders was a highly impressive feat of strength plus endurance. My feet hurt from half the standing and without a human on top of me.
D) Considering the tank top she was wearing plus how much nudity was occurring at the concert overall, I was hopeful and had to get a glimpse of these warlocks. Mainly for science but also because I was an 18 year old virgin.

But we were well into double digits in the quantity of songs Bowie performed. And I had lost hope. Pairs of naked breasts witnessed in the dozens, science wouldn’t have it’s answers here.

No longer paying any attention to them and more to David Bowie, I felt a nudge at my side.

“I think it’s time,” Uncle JT said.

I look over, scientific excitement rising as she pulls her arms up and out of the sleeves of the tank top, pulling it down to her midsection and behind the man’s head.

She reached in front of her bra, grabbing under each cup with each hand and in an impressingly smooth motion considering the size and weight of the assets she was dealing with, whipped her bra over her head.

Having been so wrapped up in the science of how the proportions worked and what they looked like, I hadn’t give any thought to the science of gravity in this situation.

I probably should have had an idea of what was to come if the warlocks were unleashed but you really don’t think about these things.

Or at least the logistics weren’t at the forefront of my thoughts, anyway.

Nor were they apparently of the man with the strongest core, neck, and lower back in the world as there were no indicators he was aware of the fate that awaited him.

If one had to get hit in the face with a lesson in gravity and Newton’s third law, this was the way it should happen.

As she swooped her bra over her head, breasts that once hung enormous, now airborne enormous and fully released, full of kinetic energy…

It was far too loud and we were too far away to hear the slap of impact, but could we SEE the sound as they flung down, fwapping him, square in the face, one on each of his cheeks.

The shock and the force hit him so hard his knees buckled, sending him slightly stumbling backwards, and almost dropping her off his shoulders.

Whether in shock or contemplating exactly what happened or what he was going to do, he spent longer than one would think with his head in the voluptuous vicegrip of breasts.

Until that is, he reached up, scooping a breast in each hand and held them on his head, elbows flared to the sides, back of his hands resting on his head, palms cupping at least 15 pounds each hand.

A sight which I remember clearly enough that if I had any artistic drawing ability, I could draw it for you right now.

Having recently got my first cell phone, I kicked myself for not fighting my parents harder on getting a camera phone.

This until she got self-conscious or realized that she could just pull her tank top back over her shoulders and she did. Though this didn’t quite work because though they were covered, they still smothered his head without the support of the bra, but now he couldn’t get his hands under to hold them up.

He took her off his shoulders as they left our sight, probably to somewhere she could see without being on shoulders, leaving us with one of the best and funniest concert memories I’d ever had.

June 2004 was the concert.

August 2004, James J. Titone passed away suddenly and unexpectedly from a brain aneurysm due to complications from leukemia we didn’t know he had. This concert, along with a camping trip we took that summer are the two last big memories I have of him.

I hold many things and experiences dear from times when he was alive, but a big one is “their ignorance is not our responsibility” and of course the knee buckling “fwapping” as we referred to it as for the rest of that summer.

RIP my first, true, non-officially blood related best friend. It’s hard to believe this year will mark as many years I have been without you as I was with you.

Photo By Author (circa 2005)

Dad of 3 under 4. Gym owner. Digital Marketing Agency owner. Continuing Education Nerdy Nerd. Helping the helpers.

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