Having lived in suburban California, I have yet to experience a white Christmas. There were a few times it looked like it might get close, but even then, it would have been more of a wet Christmas, as the snow would melt as it hit the ground.
We've gone to the snow on the day after Christmas, which was a lot of fun, especially for someone who rarely sees it. I think I was about 12, and we went to the snow with our extended family. I was eager to try out the sled my cousins had.
After finding a patch of snow that wasn't mobbed, we settled in for some frosty fun. My dad was convinced that he could sled on a broken-down cardboard box we had in the trunk, but I was holding out for the real sled.
My brother and I got our turn, and we schlepped the sled up to the top of the hill. The gentle slope evened out in the middle before continuing its downhill run, so we knew we had to get enough momentum to go all the way down the hill.
Since I was older and heavier, I got the back of the two-man sled, while my brother manned the front. With a hefty shove, we were off.
This is where everything goes in slow motion.
We were sailing along nicely, when my brother thought we were going too fast, so he pulled the handbrakes that were on the sides.
Alas, those weren't brakes; they were what you steered with. As soon as he pulled them, we went sideways, losing very little momentum. As we flipped and tumbled out of the sled, I rolled over my brother's head, practically planting him in the snow--accidentally, mind you.
The empty sled skittered to the bottom of the hill. My brother and I dusted ourselves off and looked at each other.
"Awesome."
And we headed back up the hill.
Showing posts with label childhood memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood memories. Show all posts
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Halloween addendum
Managed to unearth another Halloween picture, though this was is a bit more recent than the others in last week's post.
By 1987, I was already in charge of taking my younger brother trick or treating. And if I had to schlep around town anyway, you'd better believe I was going to get some candy, so I dressed up, too.
As you can see, we staged Freddy vs. Jason years before it even hit the screen. I hadn't yet donned my sweater, because it was a bit warm. But I assure you, I was just as terrifying with my *cough* Garfield shirt.
I remember thinking my Freddy Krueger glove was pretty badass. It smelled practically toxic (new, not worn), so I'm sure the fabric was lead-infused, as were the plastic blades.
The few Freddy masks they had in the stores were pretty weak sauce, so I took an old skull mask of my uncle's and flipped it inside out to simulate burned, melty skin. It also had the benefit of allowing me to wear my glasses underneath.
No sense walking around in the dark if I can't see two feet in front of me, right?
By 1987, I was already in charge of taking my younger brother trick or treating. And if I had to schlep around town anyway, you'd better believe I was going to get some candy, so I dressed up, too.
As you can see, we staged Freddy vs. Jason years before it even hit the screen. I hadn't yet donned my sweater, because it was a bit warm. But I assure you, I was just as terrifying with my *cough* Garfield shirt.I remember thinking my Freddy Krueger glove was pretty badass. It smelled practically toxic (new, not worn), so I'm sure the fabric was lead-infused, as were the plastic blades.
The few Freddy masks they had in the stores were pretty weak sauce, so I took an old skull mask of my uncle's and flipped it inside out to simulate burned, melty skin. It also had the benefit of allowing me to wear my glasses underneath.
No sense walking around in the dark if I can't see two feet in front of me, right?
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Okay, fine. Me in costume. Sorta.
After being mildly castigated by my friend last week because I didn't dress up for Halloween this year, I thought that I could at least comb through the Siftin' photo archives and take a look at Halloweens past.
This was Halloween 1975, when I was just days shy of my first birthday. One thing I always liked about my costumes was that they were often a blend of custom tailoring and low-tech reuse of existing garments.
Hence, the classic mouse ears hat. I'm told that I was a fiend for Mickey Mouse at a pretty young age. I called him "Meemouse" and would want to watch reruns of "The Mickey Mouse Club" when it came on.
I don't know if my parents took me out trick-or-treating, but at least there was a picture for posterity.
Okay, now wait just a minute here. Here's me in 1977, just before my third birthday. That's what the back of the picture says. But I have another picture (which is really fuzzy, so I didn't use it) of me in this outfit two years later when I was in kindergarten. Did my mom let me wear the same costume twice?
I called her, and once I mentioned it, she said that it was possible, but she didn't remember for sure.
At any rate, I remember this when I wore it in kindergarten. My mom made the fake fur leggings and the fake leather vest, but the base of the costume was a set of white thermal underwear. My favorite part of the costume was the plastic mace, which, by the end of a day of kindergarten, had very few pointy parts still sticking out.
This is one of my favorite Halloween costumes ever, despite this shot of me rolling my eyes. Mr. Skeleton here was a pretty clever outfit. It's just a black leotard with reflective tape as the various bones. Stylish and safe to hit the streets at night. In fact, now that I think of it, I don't remember ever having a store-bought costume. They were always handmade, which is pretty awesome.
The next year, I finally got to be Superman. That's me in the center of the shot. My mom, if I recall correctly, didn't make my cape; rather, my first-grade teacher did. We moved in the middle of first grade, and as a going-away present, she made me a red cape.
Embarrassingly, I used a full set of Superman Underoos along with blue tights for my main outfit. And since my idea of dying my cowboy boots red was not entirely practical, we used knee-high red socks stretched over them.
Hence, the classic mouse ears hat. I'm told that I was a fiend for Mickey Mouse at a pretty young age. I called him "Meemouse" and would want to watch reruns of "The Mickey Mouse Club" when it came on.
I don't know if my parents took me out trick-or-treating, but at least there was a picture for posterity.
I called her, and once I mentioned it, she said that it was possible, but she didn't remember for sure.
At any rate, I remember this when I wore it in kindergarten. My mom made the fake fur leggings and the fake leather vest, but the base of the costume was a set of white thermal underwear. My favorite part of the costume was the plastic mace, which, by the end of a day of kindergarten, had very few pointy parts still sticking out.This is one of my favorite Halloween costumes ever, despite this shot of me rolling my eyes. Mr. Skeleton here was a pretty clever outfit. It's just a black leotard with reflective tape as the various bones. Stylish and safe to hit the streets at night. In fact, now that I think of it, I don't remember ever having a store-bought costume. They were always handmade, which is pretty awesome.
The next year, I finally got to be Superman. That's me in the center of the shot. My mom, if I recall correctly, didn't make my cape; rather, my first-grade teacher did. We moved in the middle of first grade, and as a going-away present, she made me a red cape.
Embarrassingly, I used a full set of Superman Underoos along with blue tights for my main outfit. And since my idea of dying my cowboy boots red was not entirely practical, we used knee-high red socks stretched over them.
The last Halloween picture I have here--I need to go to the master archive to look for the ones I'm missing, which may actually be slides--skips ahead a few years to 1984.
I was crafting ever more elaborate ideas for costumes, but I couldn't decide which one I liked the most. Consequently, I ended up cobbling my costume together the night before Halloween. I used a bunch of the stuff my dad used at his job with the phone company and dressed as a phone guy. It was a cool costume in retrospect, but at the time, I remember being pissed off that I had to use a last-resort that wasn't superhero-related.
Does it show much?
Thursday, October 09, 2008
All in all, it's just another checker at the wall
As I get older, I realize that when you are a kid, you're half-crazy. Things that wouldn't make sense to someone with two brain cells to rub together are everyday occurances for kids.
Eighth grade:
Very early on in English that day, one of my friends earned 15 minutes of detention; I don't remember what for. Now, my other friend was getting a ride home with him, so he figured he may as well do something to earn detention, too.
Talking was almost always good to get your name on the board as a warning, but he needed a check by his name to earn full-fledged 15 minutes of infamy.
I know, I know. You're asking, "Why didn't he just stay without doing anything to earn detention?" But as I said, that's what sane adults wonder. Kids figure, "Hey, I have to stay anyway, I may as well do something fun."
I have a tendency to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; my first day of school when I moved to Livermore, I got brought into class with a few other kids for making noise in the bathroom. I was innocent, of course, but dumb enough to hang around. This will come into play shortly.
Now my pal needed a check. In a moment of inspiration, he spied a checker on the table of games on the wall nearest our desks. His plan was to throw the checker at the chalkboard.
Yeah. That made perfect sense.
Now by the wizened age of 13, I knew better than to be in the general vicinity of anyone even thinking of doing something detention-worthy. To that end, I made my way to the back of the classroom to get a drink of water from the fountain at the sink.
Unfortunately, my friend had already launched his projectile. The checker hit me square in the chest, bounced off the wall, off a table, hit a desk, and finally came to rest on the floor, but not after making more noise than a dinosaur passing a kidney stone.
My teacher looked to see the source of the ruckus, noticed my friend looking guilty and noticed me at the sink. She added a check by my friend's name on the board. He had achieved his goal.
But then she wrote my name on the board. I wasn't worried; I knew that sometimes you had to take one for the team.
She added a check by my name.
Yes, through no fault of my own--aside from being naturally stupid--I managed to get detention for something I didn't even do. I charley-horsed my friend in the arm--the same one that got stabbed with a pencil in another classroom incident--and expressed my dissatisfaction.
You can probably just fill in your favorite swear word here.
It look a lot of convincing on my friend's part after school when we all remained for our punishment, but my teacher relented and gave me a full pardon. I thanked her, gathered my stuff and hit the road.
As I cleared the school ground, I checked my watch and did a little math. Factoring in my explanation plus my friend's, and then some cross-examination, I was still only--
16 minutes late.
Eighth grade:
Very early on in English that day, one of my friends earned 15 minutes of detention; I don't remember what for. Now, my other friend was getting a ride home with him, so he figured he may as well do something to earn detention, too.
Talking was almost always good to get your name on the board as a warning, but he needed a check by his name to earn full-fledged 15 minutes of infamy.
I know, I know. You're asking, "Why didn't he just stay without doing anything to earn detention?" But as I said, that's what sane adults wonder. Kids figure, "Hey, I have to stay anyway, I may as well do something fun."
I have a tendency to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; my first day of school when I moved to Livermore, I got brought into class with a few other kids for making noise in the bathroom. I was innocent, of course, but dumb enough to hang around. This will come into play shortly.
Now my pal needed a check. In a moment of inspiration, he spied a checker on the table of games on the wall nearest our desks. His plan was to throw the checker at the chalkboard.
Yeah. That made perfect sense.
Now by the wizened age of 13, I knew better than to be in the general vicinity of anyone even thinking of doing something detention-worthy. To that end, I made my way to the back of the classroom to get a drink of water from the fountain at the sink.
Unfortunately, my friend had already launched his projectile. The checker hit me square in the chest, bounced off the wall, off a table, hit a desk, and finally came to rest on the floor, but not after making more noise than a dinosaur passing a kidney stone.
My teacher looked to see the source of the ruckus, noticed my friend looking guilty and noticed me at the sink. She added a check by my friend's name on the board. He had achieved his goal.
But then she wrote my name on the board. I wasn't worried; I knew that sometimes you had to take one for the team.
She added a check by my name.
Yes, through no fault of my own--aside from being naturally stupid--I managed to get detention for something I didn't even do. I charley-horsed my friend in the arm--the same one that got stabbed with a pencil in another classroom incident--and expressed my dissatisfaction.
You can probably just fill in your favorite swear word here.
It look a lot of convincing on my friend's part after school when we all remained for our punishment, but my teacher relented and gave me a full pardon. I thanked her, gathered my stuff and hit the road.
As I cleared the school ground, I checked my watch and did a little math. Factoring in my explanation plus my friend's, and then some cross-examination, I was still only--
16 minutes late.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
There's always room for cello
When I was in fourth grade, we had a music assembly in the multipurpose room. It was their annual orchestra recruitment assembly where they'd tell us that we could have fun in the orchestra, bla bla bla.
Naturally, piano wasn't one of the options (I played a mean electronic organ at home), so I wasn't paying that much attention. For some reason, fourth-graders could only play stringed instruments such as the violin.
They gave us a demonstration of the various instruments, and still, I wasn't interested.
Until the guy with the cello showed up.
I was intrigued by the fact that, unlike most of the other instruments, to play the cello meant you got to sit down.
Hey, I'm lazy.
But what really sold me was when he started playing the theme to Star Wars on it. How badass was that? I'd be the life of the party in no time.
Now there were a few obstacles in my way here. The instruments, I'd heard from friends, were very expensive, and being a total klutz, I knew there was no way I could convince my parents to buy me a cello outright.
Oh, and there was the small matter of me never having played the cello or any other stringed instrument, unless you counted the Mousegetar I had when I was 4.
There was essentially one way for me to be able to play cello in the orchestra. There was a district-wide music test that would be given in all the schools, and the top students would be allowed to use the district-owned instruments.
And out of all the students interested, only two in our school would get the cellos. So the odds weren't exactly in my favor.
The day of the test came, and we musical wannabes filed into the multipurpose room and did our best.
As it ended up, the two students who got the district's cellos were my friend Erin and me. Don't ask me how I was a top scorer. To this day, I have no idea.
And while I never learned how to play Star Wars (apparently you can't just start with that; who knew?), I was still excited to play in a school recital.
How excited?
Yep. About that excited. How I ever ended up getting married is beyond me.
Naturally, piano wasn't one of the options (I played a mean electronic organ at home), so I wasn't paying that much attention. For some reason, fourth-graders could only play stringed instruments such as the violin.
They gave us a demonstration of the various instruments, and still, I wasn't interested.
Until the guy with the cello showed up.
I was intrigued by the fact that, unlike most of the other instruments, to play the cello meant you got to sit down.
Hey, I'm lazy.
But what really sold me was when he started playing the theme to Star Wars on it. How badass was that? I'd be the life of the party in no time.
Now there were a few obstacles in my way here. The instruments, I'd heard from friends, were very expensive, and being a total klutz, I knew there was no way I could convince my parents to buy me a cello outright.
Oh, and there was the small matter of me never having played the cello or any other stringed instrument, unless you counted the Mousegetar I had when I was 4.
There was essentially one way for me to be able to play cello in the orchestra. There was a district-wide music test that would be given in all the schools, and the top students would be allowed to use the district-owned instruments.
And out of all the students interested, only two in our school would get the cellos. So the odds weren't exactly in my favor.
The day of the test came, and we musical wannabes filed into the multipurpose room and did our best.
As it ended up, the two students who got the district's cellos were my friend Erin and me. Don't ask me how I was a top scorer. To this day, I have no idea.
And while I never learned how to play Star Wars (apparently you can't just start with that; who knew?), I was still excited to play in a school recital.
How excited?
Yep. About that excited. How I ever ended up getting married is beyond me.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Give that man a hand...
Something that always interested me when I was in school was how at the end of the year, a lot of people relaxed their personae. Like a guy who might have been a complete douche all year long suddenly start being nice to you for the last few weeks of school.
I could never figure out exactly why, whether it was because school was almost over, or so you didn't plot revenge on them all summer long, or in the case of grades after which you may never see the person again, it was so you didn't plot revenge on them for the rest of existence.
At any rate, I did find this fascinating. At the end of seventh grade, I noticed that a classmate of mine (the guy who, um, disposed of the periodical during the infamous San Francisco trip) was teaching one of the girls how to play chess. This was notable for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that he didn't know how to play.
Even in high school, every time the end of May/beginning of June rolled around, people were a little friendlier. Case in point:
During the Grad Night trip to Disneyland, what started as a giant group eventually broke up into smaller and smaller groups. While we were still at least a dozen or so strong, we decided to hit Splash Mountain. Keep in mind that as per the rules, we were all wearing semiformal wear.
I was decked out in my mad-pimp/Bob Barker black pinstripe suit I got for five bucks at Salvation Army, so I wasn't worried about the possibility of getting wet.
We were in line, chatting with our friends, when one friend of ours--let's call him Jeremy, since that was his name--started schmoozing with a few female classmates. Talking to the ladies was one thing, but he was laying it on awful thick--at least, that's how it seemed to my friend Jeff and I.
We both looked at Jeremy, and then looked at each other. Wordlessly, we agreed that letting this behavior go unchecked would just be detrimental to our friend in the long run, so we had to do something about it.
"Yeah," Jeremy said, "I draw a little bit. In fact, I was--"
He stopped in mid-sentence, because Jeff had stepped forward and held up Jeremy's hand as if it were a trophy. The girls waited for an explanation with a puzzled look on their faces.
"This," Jeff said in the most serious voice he could muster, "is the hand of a man who masturbates."
And then as if nothing had happened, he got back in line with me. The girls laughed while Jeremy sputtered, trying to think of something to say after that.
I admired Jeff for his ability to cut through the crap like that.
Unless he did it to me. That was a sock in the arm.
I could never figure out exactly why, whether it was because school was almost over, or so you didn't plot revenge on them all summer long, or in the case of grades after which you may never see the person again, it was so you didn't plot revenge on them for the rest of existence.
At any rate, I did find this fascinating. At the end of seventh grade, I noticed that a classmate of mine (the guy who, um, disposed of the periodical during the infamous San Francisco trip) was teaching one of the girls how to play chess. This was notable for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that he didn't know how to play.
Even in high school, every time the end of May/beginning of June rolled around, people were a little friendlier. Case in point:
During the Grad Night trip to Disneyland, what started as a giant group eventually broke up into smaller and smaller groups. While we were still at least a dozen or so strong, we decided to hit Splash Mountain. Keep in mind that as per the rules, we were all wearing semiformal wear.
I was decked out in my mad-pimp/Bob Barker black pinstripe suit I got for five bucks at Salvation Army, so I wasn't worried about the possibility of getting wet.
We were in line, chatting with our friends, when one friend of ours--let's call him Jeremy, since that was his name--started schmoozing with a few female classmates. Talking to the ladies was one thing, but he was laying it on awful thick--at least, that's how it seemed to my friend Jeff and I.
We both looked at Jeremy, and then looked at each other. Wordlessly, we agreed that letting this behavior go unchecked would just be detrimental to our friend in the long run, so we had to do something about it.
"Yeah," Jeremy said, "I draw a little bit. In fact, I was--"
He stopped in mid-sentence, because Jeff had stepped forward and held up Jeremy's hand as if it were a trophy. The girls waited for an explanation with a puzzled look on their faces.
"This," Jeff said in the most serious voice he could muster, "is the hand of a man who masturbates."
And then as if nothing had happened, he got back in line with me. The girls laughed while Jeremy sputtered, trying to think of something to say after that.
I admired Jeff for his ability to cut through the crap like that.
Unless he did it to me. That was a sock in the arm.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Rock out with your adult male domestic chicken out
I looked out at the crowd in Yamasaki Plaza. A sea of familiar faces looked back at me expectantly. Very shortly, I'd find out if I was going to fail miserably. I looked at my keyboard, its black and white teeth smiling vacantly back at me and wondered how I got into this situation.
I blame Ajax Laundry Detergent.
Well, I guess I need to explain that a little further. One day I was hanging out at my friend Eric's house. Eric had a drum set, and we'd just kind of goof around and try to play along with whatever we were listening to. I was goofing around intermittently with the keyboard he had lying around.
"Brother and Sister" by Erasure came on, and I picked out the intro on the keyboard. Here's the song for reference:
Eric was impressed with how quickly I picked it out, hearing the song for the very first time, and asked how long I'd been playing. I told him I got my first keyboard for my 10th birthday, but I didn't really play very well. This was true; I could pick out melodies by ear, but I had a hell of a time trying to play anything with both hands at the same time.
I tried to tell him it was luck more than anything that I played it, but he didn't buy it. I felt like I was deceiving him somehow. While it was the first time I'd heard the song, the intro was similar to something else I'd listened to a kajillion times: the jingle for Ajax Laundry Detergent.
One of the CDs I listened to constantly was the TeeVee Tunes compilation of classic commercial jingles, and the "stronger than dirt" part of the jingle was similar to the intro of the Erasure song.
Yes, I realize there's an entirely good chance that I was the only 15-year-old in the world who would've made that connection, but let's just ignore that for right now.
Well, this one little thing got blown out of proportion by Eric, who told our friends that I could play anything after listening to it once, and in all honesty, I was not as diligent as I could've been in dispelling this notion.
So when it came time for the Spring Cultural Faire my senior year in high school, a few of my friends decided they'd band together and play some songs. They had a drummer and guitarists, but they needed a keyboardist for a few songs.
"Hey, Sparkman," one of them asked me, "do you think you could learn the intro to 'In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida' in time for the Cultural Faire?" I had put the song on a mixtape I'd made for this particular friend, so I was already familiar with the song.
They just needed me to play the introduction; I didn't need to learn the solo crap in the middle. That wouldn't be a problem, I thought.
"Sure."
"Awesome. You'll be our guest keyboardist," he told me. Another friend of ours, Nick, was going to play on The Doors' "The End."
Being the attention/affection whore that I am, I couldn't pass up a possibility to perform in front of fellow students, so I was looking forward to it.
Not so forward to it that I started to learn it as soon as I got home that day, but I was pretty jazzed about it. We went over to Eric's to practice, and everyone else was hashing out their parts. Someone would ask me how my part was coming along.
"Oh, I'll be ready," I said, which sounded positive, but was also true, considering that I had yet to try figuring it out. This was pre-Interwebs days, so it's not like I could just Google the song and get the music.
Here's part of the song. The part I was in charge of is at the very beginning.
So the weekend before I was to make my guest performance in front of my peers, I decided that I'd stalled long enough. I pulled the album out of the cabinet and put it on the turntable. After a few abortive attempts that had me seriously worried that I wasn't going to figure it out in time, I turned the record player off and tried to play it from what I had stored in my brain.
And all of a sudden, it clicked. I kicked myself after seeing how simple it was. So I spent another few minutes just trying to play it all at once without screwing up.
Within a half-hour of starting, I had it. Now I was able to go over to Eric's to practice. We ran through the song a few times, and we had it down about as good as we were going to. We were prepared.
So on the day of the actual performance, it occurred to me that I didn't know what I was supposed to do once I finished my part. It was only a few seconds long, and this was a long song. Was I supposed to sit there like a tool?
The band, Toast House (I didn't come up with the name, but I wasn't surprised at the story behind it), was introduced, and I realized that this was my moment to not screw up.
I started playing.
Aside from a minor screwup, I did okay. After playing the last note of the intro, I turned off the keyboard and went to sit in the front with the rest of the audience. The rest of the show went just fine, with one of the high points being my friends and I wondering if Richard, our guitarist/singer, was going to drop the F-bomb during his rendition of "The End."
After the performance, people I didn't talk to much would say hi or make a comment about the performance, even though I played only for a few seconds. Considering I was used to getting attention as a target of ridicule--which admittedly was seldom by the time I was a senior in high school, but old habits die hard--it was nice to be noticed for something else.
Thus I ended my rock star career while I was still on the top.
I blame Ajax Laundry Detergent.
Well, I guess I need to explain that a little further. One day I was hanging out at my friend Eric's house. Eric had a drum set, and we'd just kind of goof around and try to play along with whatever we were listening to. I was goofing around intermittently with the keyboard he had lying around.
"Brother and Sister" by Erasure came on, and I picked out the intro on the keyboard. Here's the song for reference:
Eric was impressed with how quickly I picked it out, hearing the song for the very first time, and asked how long I'd been playing. I told him I got my first keyboard for my 10th birthday, but I didn't really play very well. This was true; I could pick out melodies by ear, but I had a hell of a time trying to play anything with both hands at the same time.
I tried to tell him it was luck more than anything that I played it, but he didn't buy it. I felt like I was deceiving him somehow. While it was the first time I'd heard the song, the intro was similar to something else I'd listened to a kajillion times: the jingle for Ajax Laundry Detergent.
One of the CDs I listened to constantly was the TeeVee Tunes compilation of classic commercial jingles, and the "stronger than dirt" part of the jingle was similar to the intro of the Erasure song.
Yes, I realize there's an entirely good chance that I was the only 15-year-old in the world who would've made that connection, but let's just ignore that for right now.
Well, this one little thing got blown out of proportion by Eric, who told our friends that I could play anything after listening to it once, and in all honesty, I was not as diligent as I could've been in dispelling this notion.
So when it came time for the Spring Cultural Faire my senior year in high school, a few of my friends decided they'd band together and play some songs. They had a drummer and guitarists, but they needed a keyboardist for a few songs.
"Hey, Sparkman," one of them asked me, "do you think you could learn the intro to 'In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida' in time for the Cultural Faire?" I had put the song on a mixtape I'd made for this particular friend, so I was already familiar with the song.
They just needed me to play the introduction; I didn't need to learn the solo crap in the middle. That wouldn't be a problem, I thought.
"Sure."
"Awesome. You'll be our guest keyboardist," he told me. Another friend of ours, Nick, was going to play on The Doors' "The End."
Being the attention/affection whore that I am, I couldn't pass up a possibility to perform in front of fellow students, so I was looking forward to it.
Not so forward to it that I started to learn it as soon as I got home that day, but I was pretty jazzed about it. We went over to Eric's to practice, and everyone else was hashing out their parts. Someone would ask me how my part was coming along.
"Oh, I'll be ready," I said, which sounded positive, but was also true, considering that I had yet to try figuring it out. This was pre-Interwebs days, so it's not like I could just Google the song and get the music.
Here's part of the song. The part I was in charge of is at the very beginning.
So the weekend before I was to make my guest performance in front of my peers, I decided that I'd stalled long enough. I pulled the album out of the cabinet and put it on the turntable. After a few abortive attempts that had me seriously worried that I wasn't going to figure it out in time, I turned the record player off and tried to play it from what I had stored in my brain.
And all of a sudden, it clicked. I kicked myself after seeing how simple it was. So I spent another few minutes just trying to play it all at once without screwing up.
Within a half-hour of starting, I had it. Now I was able to go over to Eric's to practice. We ran through the song a few times, and we had it down about as good as we were going to. We were prepared.
So on the day of the actual performance, it occurred to me that I didn't know what I was supposed to do once I finished my part. It was only a few seconds long, and this was a long song. Was I supposed to sit there like a tool?
The band, Toast House (I didn't come up with the name, but I wasn't surprised at the story behind it), was introduced, and I realized that this was my moment to not screw up.
I started playing.
Aside from a minor screwup, I did okay. After playing the last note of the intro, I turned off the keyboard and went to sit in the front with the rest of the audience. The rest of the show went just fine, with one of the high points being my friends and I wondering if Richard, our guitarist/singer, was going to drop the F-bomb during his rendition of "The End."
After the performance, people I didn't talk to much would say hi or make a comment about the performance, even though I played only for a few seconds. Considering I was used to getting attention as a target of ridicule--which admittedly was seldom by the time I was a senior in high school, but old habits die hard--it was nice to be noticed for something else.
Thus I ended my rock star career while I was still on the top.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
When you're a Jet, you're a Jet all the way
Long before Fight Club, I was one of a number of kids who participated in fighting activities that were expressly forbidden at my school.
Even a nerd like me threw caution to the win and engaged in the fights. There was no elaborate setup; often you and your opponent would just throw down.
But first you needed to prepare, and that meant a trip to the school library at lunchtime. That was where you got your gear.
All the professional pencil fighters swore by the NFL team pencils from the library vending machine. Occasionally, some joker would try to play with one of those Husky pencils that you get in kindergarten--you know, the ones that are as big around as an elephant's leg. But those weren't considered regulation gear.
Many a quarter vanished into that machine, and in addition to dispensing pencils, it also dispensed fate.
In mid-80s Northern California, two team pencils were coveted over all others: the 49ers and the Raiders. If you managed to get one of the red-and-gold or silver-and-black marvels, you had a better chance of winning your pencil fight. The Steelers and the Jets were acceptable second-tier teams.
If, however, you were unlucky, your the machine would puke out teams such as the Browns or Colts. You might as well have snapped those in half yourself rather than risk embarrassment.
Every pencil fighter had his style, but the general approach was the same: while securing one end of the pencil in one hand, you used the other to flick the metal end, at which point the middle of your pencil--the meat, if you will--clashed with your opponent's.
You weren't supposed to try to hit with the metal end; in fact, that was the dangerous part. Every flick had the potential to smash the living crap out of someone's finger by "accident."
But assuming you made the regulation pencil-to-pencil contact, you and your opponent took turns, hoping each hit would be the one that splintered a pencil into oblivion.
The audience took pains to obscure the view of the fight from any teacher, lest the fight get canceled. But once they heard the telltale crack, they got louder and more sure of who was going to win.
We nerds had a bit of an advantage, as it was not uncommon for the badass kids to make such a show of delivering the famed one-hit fatality that they snapped their own pencils.
And suggesting that said badass was only pencil fighting to compensate for anatomic deficiencies usually didn't go over very well.
In any event, even if the nerd won, he'd lose; the badass would just grab the winning pencil and snap it in his face.
Douche.
Even a nerd like me threw caution to the win and engaged in the fights. There was no elaborate setup; often you and your opponent would just throw down.
But first you needed to prepare, and that meant a trip to the school library at lunchtime. That was where you got your gear.
All the professional pencil fighters swore by the NFL team pencils from the library vending machine. Occasionally, some joker would try to play with one of those Husky pencils that you get in kindergarten--you know, the ones that are as big around as an elephant's leg. But those weren't considered regulation gear.
Many a quarter vanished into that machine, and in addition to dispensing pencils, it also dispensed fate.
In mid-80s Northern California, two team pencils were coveted over all others: the 49ers and the Raiders. If you managed to get one of the red-and-gold or silver-and-black marvels, you had a better chance of winning your pencil fight. The Steelers and the Jets were acceptable second-tier teams.
If, however, you were unlucky, your the machine would puke out teams such as the Browns or Colts. You might as well have snapped those in half yourself rather than risk embarrassment.
Every pencil fighter had his style, but the general approach was the same: while securing one end of the pencil in one hand, you used the other to flick the metal end, at which point the middle of your pencil--the meat, if you will--clashed with your opponent's.
You weren't supposed to try to hit with the metal end; in fact, that was the dangerous part. Every flick had the potential to smash the living crap out of someone's finger by "accident."
But assuming you made the regulation pencil-to-pencil contact, you and your opponent took turns, hoping each hit would be the one that splintered a pencil into oblivion.
The audience took pains to obscure the view of the fight from any teacher, lest the fight get canceled. But once they heard the telltale crack, they got louder and more sure of who was going to win.
We nerds had a bit of an advantage, as it was not uncommon for the badass kids to make such a show of delivering the famed one-hit fatality that they snapped their own pencils.
And suggesting that said badass was only pencil fighting to compensate for anatomic deficiencies usually didn't go over very well.
In any event, even if the nerd won, he'd lose; the badass would just grab the winning pencil and snap it in his face.
Douche.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Hidden memory nuggets
With so many shows being released on DVD, you'd think that for someone like me, I could watch all the old shows like I watched when I was little.
For example, the Looney Tunes Golden Collections have tons of awesome cartoons and extras. But so far, I haven't seen any of the later Warner Bros. cartoons that were a staple of Saturday mornings of my youth, watching the Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Hour on CBS.
So when I found this clip on YouTube, hearing the first few seconds of the music from a late Road Runner/Wile E. Coyote cartoon really brought back memories.
For a second or two, I was 6 years old, clad in my Superman pajamas, nursing a bowl of Apple Jacks on my trusty TV tray.
(the clip is a bit loud, so turn down the volume)
It's these little things that I enjoy almost more than the prospect of getting to see one of my favorite shows in its entirety; the stuff that most of us forget.
Just the little bit of music they played to introduce the cartoon is something that I forgot until I saw this video. But as soon as I heard it, it was like, "How could I have forgotten it?"
See if you can last through this whole compilation. My thanks to WREYNetwork for uploading these gems.
For example, the Looney Tunes Golden Collections have tons of awesome cartoons and extras. But so far, I haven't seen any of the later Warner Bros. cartoons that were a staple of Saturday mornings of my youth, watching the Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Hour on CBS.
So when I found this clip on YouTube, hearing the first few seconds of the music from a late Road Runner/Wile E. Coyote cartoon really brought back memories.
For a second or two, I was 6 years old, clad in my Superman pajamas, nursing a bowl of Apple Jacks on my trusty TV tray.
(the clip is a bit loud, so turn down the volume)
It's these little things that I enjoy almost more than the prospect of getting to see one of my favorite shows in its entirety; the stuff that most of us forget.
Just the little bit of music they played to introduce the cartoon is something that I forgot until I saw this video. But as soon as I heard it, it was like, "How could I have forgotten it?"
See if you can last through this whole compilation. My thanks to WREYNetwork for uploading these gems.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
The name of the game
Everyone, I think, went to school with someone who had a funny name. I had a lab partner in high school named Rob Graves. Jen went to school with a girl named Anna Banana.
Jen and I had long discussions about baby names. It seems to me that some parents just don't think very far ahead when they come up with names for their kids. Ours are tested; I tried to come up with everything I could think of that a kid might twist the names into.
The name I was born with was innocuous enough, but I've told friends about a young man who was not so lucky. I went to school with a kid named Harold. Harold Balz.
Yup.
Harry Balz.
As you might imagine, he got a lot of ribbing for his name, and he tended to be something of a troublemaker. Causing trouble was the only way he could distract people from making fun of his name, and he developed quite the reputation.
So much so that when our teacher was out sick, she left a note that explicity mentioned Harold and his propensity for causing shenanigans.
One day when we found ourselves with a substitute teacher (in an astounding display of poor judgment, our teacher actually alerted us ahead of time) for the day, Harry decided to start the day off by hiding most of the class in the coat closet. Big closet, small kids, and not everyone participated; he needed witnesses to document the sub's reaction.
Our hapless sub came in and noticed that our numbers were a little thin. Before she could call roll, Margaret Ballanger, the class tattletale, made like Benedict Arnold and ratted out Harry and the others. The substitute teacher, Miss Binney, said that our teacher had left a note about Harry and thanked her for being honest.
I rolled my eyes at Margaret.
To be fair, I think the sub would've figured it out before too long. With all those kids in the closet, they weren't all that quiet. Miss Binney walked over the the closet, the clacking of her high heels sounding like gunshots in the relative silence.
As she got closer, the whispering from the closet grew more audible. She leaned her head in and knocked on the closet door. More whispering and even more shushing from inside.
"All right," Miss Binney said sternly. "Anyone in there with Harry Balz had better come out right now." As she realized what she said, I was busy trying not to explode with laughter. The classroom was dead silent.
And then, from inside the closet: "...does fuzz count?"
Jen and I had long discussions about baby names. It seems to me that some parents just don't think very far ahead when they come up with names for their kids. Ours are tested; I tried to come up with everything I could think of that a kid might twist the names into.
The name I was born with was innocuous enough, but I've told friends about a young man who was not so lucky. I went to school with a kid named Harold. Harold Balz.
Yup.
Harry Balz.
As you might imagine, he got a lot of ribbing for his name, and he tended to be something of a troublemaker. Causing trouble was the only way he could distract people from making fun of his name, and he developed quite the reputation.
So much so that when our teacher was out sick, she left a note that explicity mentioned Harold and his propensity for causing shenanigans.
One day when we found ourselves with a substitute teacher (in an astounding display of poor judgment, our teacher actually alerted us ahead of time) for the day, Harry decided to start the day off by hiding most of the class in the coat closet. Big closet, small kids, and not everyone participated; he needed witnesses to document the sub's reaction.
Our hapless sub came in and noticed that our numbers were a little thin. Before she could call roll, Margaret Ballanger, the class tattletale, made like Benedict Arnold and ratted out Harry and the others. The substitute teacher, Miss Binney, said that our teacher had left a note about Harry and thanked her for being honest.
I rolled my eyes at Margaret.
To be fair, I think the sub would've figured it out before too long. With all those kids in the closet, they weren't all that quiet. Miss Binney walked over the the closet, the clacking of her high heels sounding like gunshots in the relative silence.
As she got closer, the whispering from the closet grew more audible. She leaned her head in and knocked on the closet door. More whispering and even more shushing from inside.
"All right," Miss Binney said sternly. "Anyone in there with Harry Balz had better come out right now." As she realized what she said, I was busy trying not to explode with laughter. The classroom was dead silent.
And then, from inside the closet: "...does fuzz count?"
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Field Trip, the conclusion
Before you read this, start with parts one, two, and three.
My stomach fell down to around my shins when it seemed that we had managed to miss the whole rest of our class and were now stuck in San Francisco. I knew we shouldn't have stopped at the deli.
Before we started to really panic, I saw someone familiar--one of the parents--and went over to him.
"Oh, are you guys late, too?" I asked. If nothing else, we could hitch a ride with them or something. He looked puzzled.
"No, we're the first ones here. We've still got an hour or so before everyone else gets here."
I went back to my group and broken the news to them. There was much swearing and much relief. In fact, no we could go grab something substantial to eat without worrying about anything.
Being in San Francisco gives you a wide array of dining options, so I thought long and hard about where I was going to get my official field trip lunch.
"Hi, I'd like a cheeseburger Happy Meal with a Coke." While the food was good, the toy in my Happy Meal was a disappointment--a tie-in with An American Tail. Lame.
After we all ate, we hung out in front of the Opera House, waiting for every one else to get there. We were tempted to look at our, um, reading material, but decided against it, since we didn't know when our teacher would be arriving.
So we spent our time watching all the different people walking by, including one courageous cat who was decked out in candy-cane-striped cowboy boots. It's always nice to see people dress up for the holidays.
Eventually, everyone was there, and it was time for us to file in to see The Nutcracker, or as we all called it, The Ballbuster. I thought The Gonad Grinder was catchier myself, but I was outvoted.
We had pretty good seats. I mean, we weren't up in the front, but we could make out the dancers' features well enough. The show was fairly uneventful until one of the ballerinas went for a pirouette and fell flat on her ass.
Even in the dimmed lights, you could tell where our class was sitting, because where everyone else was making whispering sounds of concern for her welfare, we were chortling hysterically despite admonishment from others.
After the giggles quieted down, Mike, who was sitting next to me, leaned over and said "I'll be right back."
Now I am not the swiftest person by any stretch of the imagination, but even I realized that he wanted the chance to check out the paper by himself. Jim was on my other side and asked where Mike was going. He concurred with my theory about the reason for Mike's departure.
A while later he came back, his jacket unzipped. As if that weren't enough of a sign that something was up, he looked like he'd pushed a wheelchair-bound nun down a starwell full of three-legged kittens and baby seals. I'm talking GUILTY.
"Dude, where did you go?" I whispered to him once he sat down. He didn't say anything for a second.
"I, uh, had to go to the bathroom, so I figured while I was there, I'd look at the, you know...," he whispered back finally.
"I figured as much. So?"
"Well, I looked through it, and all it had was a bunch of phones numbers and stuff like that."
"So?"
"So I," he paused, "I flushed it down the toilet."
"YOU WHAT?" I said, not bothering to whisper. That got the attention of the rest of my row. I whispered to Jim, who whispered to Dwight. Ryan had sat with other kids in his grade. We all leaned forward and glared sidelong at him. He smiled sheepishly with a "what else could I do?" look.
Well, I was pissed. Not so much because I didn't even get to look at the damn thing (though, admittedly, I was a bit curious), but he was the only one who didn't contribute any money.
On the BART trip home, he didn't want to talk much about it, which meant that we had to come up with explanations on our own. We came up with a few:
1. He panicked, didn't want to get caught, and threw it away. There was no way that thing was fitting down the toilet
2. He looked at it, saw that it had boobies galore and didn't throw it away so he could keep it for himself
3. He was telling the truth
or, our personal favorite,
4. Something...happened to the paper while he was inspecting it. I'm not going into any more detail, but I think you know what we meant.
He denied it, of course, but for the rest of the year, it was a sore point that we never failed to bring up. It could come out of the blue; if he had a scar on the palm of his hand, we'd say that's from where he cut himself shaving. Repeat as unnecessary.
Well, we all managed to get back home safe and sound, if out a little change with nothing to show for it. I don't think we ever quite found out how we were separated from our chaperons; nothing was ever said to us about it, anyway.
Mike moved away after the end of seventh grade, and I would not be surprised if at least one of us made reference to the field trip when we signed his yearbook. Something subtle.
"Mike, have a great summer, and don't be a jerk-off."
My stomach fell down to around my shins when it seemed that we had managed to miss the whole rest of our class and were now stuck in San Francisco. I knew we shouldn't have stopped at the deli.
Before we started to really panic, I saw someone familiar--one of the parents--and went over to him.
"Oh, are you guys late, too?" I asked. If nothing else, we could hitch a ride with them or something. He looked puzzled.
"No, we're the first ones here. We've still got an hour or so before everyone else gets here."
I went back to my group and broken the news to them. There was much swearing and much relief. In fact, no we could go grab something substantial to eat without worrying about anything.
Being in San Francisco gives you a wide array of dining options, so I thought long and hard about where I was going to get my official field trip lunch.
"Hi, I'd like a cheeseburger Happy Meal with a Coke." While the food was good, the toy in my Happy Meal was a disappointment--a tie-in with An American Tail. Lame.
After we all ate, we hung out in front of the Opera House, waiting for every one else to get there. We were tempted to look at our, um, reading material, but decided against it, since we didn't know when our teacher would be arriving.
So we spent our time watching all the different people walking by, including one courageous cat who was decked out in candy-cane-striped cowboy boots. It's always nice to see people dress up for the holidays.
Eventually, everyone was there, and it was time for us to file in to see The Nutcracker, or as we all called it, The Ballbuster. I thought The Gonad Grinder was catchier myself, but I was outvoted.
We had pretty good seats. I mean, we weren't up in the front, but we could make out the dancers' features well enough. The show was fairly uneventful until one of the ballerinas went for a pirouette and fell flat on her ass.
Even in the dimmed lights, you could tell where our class was sitting, because where everyone else was making whispering sounds of concern for her welfare, we were chortling hysterically despite admonishment from others.
After the giggles quieted down, Mike, who was sitting next to me, leaned over and said "I'll be right back."
Now I am not the swiftest person by any stretch of the imagination, but even I realized that he wanted the chance to check out the paper by himself. Jim was on my other side and asked where Mike was going. He concurred with my theory about the reason for Mike's departure.
A while later he came back, his jacket unzipped. As if that weren't enough of a sign that something was up, he looked like he'd pushed a wheelchair-bound nun down a starwell full of three-legged kittens and baby seals. I'm talking GUILTY.
"Dude, where did you go?" I whispered to him once he sat down. He didn't say anything for a second.
"I, uh, had to go to the bathroom, so I figured while I was there, I'd look at the, you know...," he whispered back finally.
"I figured as much. So?"
"Well, I looked through it, and all it had was a bunch of phones numbers and stuff like that."
"So?"
"So I," he paused, "I flushed it down the toilet."
"YOU WHAT?" I said, not bothering to whisper. That got the attention of the rest of my row. I whispered to Jim, who whispered to Dwight. Ryan had sat with other kids in his grade. We all leaned forward and glared sidelong at him. He smiled sheepishly with a "what else could I do?" look.
Well, I was pissed. Not so much because I didn't even get to look at the damn thing (though, admittedly, I was a bit curious), but he was the only one who didn't contribute any money.
On the BART trip home, he didn't want to talk much about it, which meant that we had to come up with explanations on our own. We came up with a few:
1. He panicked, didn't want to get caught, and threw it away. There was no way that thing was fitting down the toilet
2. He looked at it, saw that it had boobies galore and didn't throw it away so he could keep it for himself
3. He was telling the truth
or, our personal favorite,
4. Something...happened to the paper while he was inspecting it. I'm not going into any more detail, but I think you know what we meant.
He denied it, of course, but for the rest of the year, it was a sore point that we never failed to bring up. It could come out of the blue; if he had a scar on the palm of his hand, we'd say that's from where he cut himself shaving. Repeat as unnecessary.
Well, we all managed to get back home safe and sound, if out a little change with nothing to show for it. I don't think we ever quite found out how we were separated from our chaperons; nothing was ever said to us about it, anyway.
Mike moved away after the end of seventh grade, and I would not be surprised if at least one of us made reference to the field trip when we signed his yearbook. Something subtle.
"Mike, have a great summer, and don't be a jerk-off."
Friday, May 16, 2008
Field Trip, part three
Start with parts one and two before reading this:
Even though we now had our bearings (and I put myself in charge of keeping the map right-side up), we still had to hustle to the Opera House; it was a bit over a mile away.
Now I don't remember whose idea it was; I know it wasn't mine. If it was, I'd cop to it. At any rate, somehow we decided that, having passed the skrillionth vending machine with the aforementioned scantily clad women, maybe we should, you know, get a souvenir.
We hadn't planned far enough ahead to figure out what we'd do with it after the field trip, but we were living in the moment. It felt like we were on an A-Team mission or something.
So when we passed the net bank of machines, we slowed down to see how much this anatomy lesson would cost. It wasn't cheap, that's for sure. It was at least $3, possibly more. While Mike balked at spending so much money on something we weren't supposed to be in possession of, everyone else, me included, ponied up.
Once we had enough money, the question then became, who was going to actually buy the thing? After much hemming and hawing on our part, claiming old war injuries and other excuses, we voted Dwight to be our designated consumer. This was mostly because he chastised us for being wusses.
"Oh for God's sake, just give me the money. It'll take like one whole minute," Dwight said, feeding the coins into the machine. However, we missed anything he said after that because we saw a cop car approaching. The rest of us crossed the street, leaving Dwight holding onto the handle of the vending machine. He already had half the money in, and since he put in the most money, he wasn't about to say goodbye to it.
He fed the rest of the money in as fast as he could, ignoring the honking from people driving by him, grabbed the paper, folded it under his arm and joined us on the other side of the street. If the police officer had seen him, he didn't think it was worth stopping for.
"Thanks a lot, assholes," Dwight said, his cheeks flushed either from running or from embarrassment.
"There was a cop," I explained.
"Like he cares. I could have been buying the Chronicle for all he knows."
"Well, I didn't want to get caught," Mike said.
Dwight was already not paying attention. He was trying to get a peek at the inside of the paper to see if the girls were unobscured by stars and bars. Possibly unpatriotic, I suppose, but you can't argue with puberty.
Alas, every time he almost got it folded open, some old lady would approach, and he'd close it back up again.
"This is no good," Dwight said. "We'll have to look at it later."
"Mike, why don't you put it in your jacket?" Jim suggested. A good plan; Mike was the tallest, so he had the most room to stash something in his jacket.
"What if someone finds it?"
"I don't think they frisk kids going into the ballet," Jim said.
"Come on, Mike," Ryan said a little forcefully for a sixth-grader. We all looked at him for a second and then looked back at Mike.
"You didn't even put in any money," I said. "You could at least hold it. Who's going to think you're holding anything in your jacket?"
He reluctantly agreed, rolled it up as tight as he could and tucked it in his jacket, which he then zipped up. We resumed our formation: Dwight, Mike and Jim up front, me in the Chewbacca position, and Chad bringing up the rear.
Going the right way had an amazing effect on our travel time; in fact, we got to the Opera House in practically no time. However, we didn't celebrate just yet because we noticed one minor detail.
No one was there to meet us. No teachers, no parents, no kids, no one at all. This was not a good sign.
How much longer can I stretch this out? Would you believe one more day?
Will we get home from San Francisco? Will our contraband get discovered? What is the event that causes controversy among our group?
Come back for the thrilling conclusion!
Even though we now had our bearings (and I put myself in charge of keeping the map right-side up), we still had to hustle to the Opera House; it was a bit over a mile away.
Now I don't remember whose idea it was; I know it wasn't mine. If it was, I'd cop to it. At any rate, somehow we decided that, having passed the skrillionth vending machine with the aforementioned scantily clad women, maybe we should, you know, get a souvenir.
We hadn't planned far enough ahead to figure out what we'd do with it after the field trip, but we were living in the moment. It felt like we were on an A-Team mission or something.
So when we passed the net bank of machines, we slowed down to see how much this anatomy lesson would cost. It wasn't cheap, that's for sure. It was at least $3, possibly more. While Mike balked at spending so much money on something we weren't supposed to be in possession of, everyone else, me included, ponied up.
Once we had enough money, the question then became, who was going to actually buy the thing? After much hemming and hawing on our part, claiming old war injuries and other excuses, we voted Dwight to be our designated consumer. This was mostly because he chastised us for being wusses.
"Oh for God's sake, just give me the money. It'll take like one whole minute," Dwight said, feeding the coins into the machine. However, we missed anything he said after that because we saw a cop car approaching. The rest of us crossed the street, leaving Dwight holding onto the handle of the vending machine. He already had half the money in, and since he put in the most money, he wasn't about to say goodbye to it.
He fed the rest of the money in as fast as he could, ignoring the honking from people driving by him, grabbed the paper, folded it under his arm and joined us on the other side of the street. If the police officer had seen him, he didn't think it was worth stopping for.
"Thanks a lot, assholes," Dwight said, his cheeks flushed either from running or from embarrassment.
"There was a cop," I explained.
"Like he cares. I could have been buying the Chronicle for all he knows."
"Well, I didn't want to get caught," Mike said.
Dwight was already not paying attention. He was trying to get a peek at the inside of the paper to see if the girls were unobscured by stars and bars. Possibly unpatriotic, I suppose, but you can't argue with puberty.
Alas, every time he almost got it folded open, some old lady would approach, and he'd close it back up again.
"This is no good," Dwight said. "We'll have to look at it later."
"Mike, why don't you put it in your jacket?" Jim suggested. A good plan; Mike was the tallest, so he had the most room to stash something in his jacket.
"What if someone finds it?"
"I don't think they frisk kids going into the ballet," Jim said.
"Come on, Mike," Ryan said a little forcefully for a sixth-grader. We all looked at him for a second and then looked back at Mike.
"You didn't even put in any money," I said. "You could at least hold it. Who's going to think you're holding anything in your jacket?"
He reluctantly agreed, rolled it up as tight as he could and tucked it in his jacket, which he then zipped up. We resumed our formation: Dwight, Mike and Jim up front, me in the Chewbacca position, and Chad bringing up the rear.
Going the right way had an amazing effect on our travel time; in fact, we got to the Opera House in practically no time. However, we didn't celebrate just yet because we noticed one minor detail.
No one was there to meet us. No teachers, no parents, no kids, no one at all. This was not a good sign.
How much longer can I stretch this out? Would you believe one more day?
Will we get home from San Francisco? Will our contraband get discovered? What is the event that causes controversy among our group?
Come back for the thrilling conclusion!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Field Trip, part two
If you missed the first part of this, go here and read it first. I'll wait.
Everyone ready? OK.
We thought we were in big trouble. Our teacher went over the importance of staying with our chaperons at all times, and barely an hour into our trip, we'd already lost them.
Even more pressing was the fact that they knew where we were going; us, not so much. We had the hand-drawn map, and that was about it. None of us had a working watch, which was part of the reason we hustled to meet back at our rendezvous point.
Maybe we misunderstood where we were supposed to meet. We didn't think so, but we didn't have any other explanation. While I had visions of calling my parents to pick me up in San Francisco, we decided to do our best to get to our final destination.
We appointed Ryan, the lone sixth-grader in our group, to be the map holder. Dwight had been to the city a few times, which gave him seniority in the group. He led our excursion.
Technically, we'd both been to the city last year on another field trip, but the highlight of that trip was eating dim sum and sampling new cuisine. I got a tiny cup of tea that almost immediately made me sleepy, and a bowl of what was supposed to be tapioca pudding but had a skin on it about as thick as the bowl itself and the consistency of paste.
The highlight of that highlight was when Dwight, like many of our other classmates, ordered chicken feet and then proclaimed that his had athlete's foot.
Oh, and a few of the older kids in the class somehow managed to get locked in a church basement.
None of this really helped with navigating, though. On one hand, we were nervous, but on the other, we were free to do whatever we wanted. Nerds on the town. Party time.
Well, except for the fact that we didn't know what time it was. Worrywart that I am, I didn't want to check anything out until after we got to the Opera House. I figured that with our luck, we'd stop somewhere and end up missing everything by 10 minutes or something.
"We have plenty of time before we have to be there," Dwight explained. I knew he was right, but I still worried. Dwight suggested that I would worry less once I developed balls.
"That's not what your mom said."
We all were so conditioned to the insult-ridden jungle that was middle school, that it was second nature to just cap on someone if the opportunity was there. I learned 90 percent of all the filth I know now back in sixth and seventh grade. And this, before the Internet. I shudder now to realize the phrases that were bandied about by 11- and 12-year-olds.
Heck, when I moved to Tracy at the end of fifth grade, it was de rigueur to call everyone "scrotum."
It was nuts, I know.
Moving right along...
After a few blocks, we noticed one recurring feature on the streets of San Francisco. Newspaper vending machines. Or to be more precise, newspaper vending machines that featured publications with women clad in nothing but black bars and strategically placed stars. They didn't have papers like that back home. The closest we got to seeing boobies was watching scrambled Cinemax, squinting furiously in the hope of seeing something recognizable.
Don't act like you didn't do it, too, you perv.
With each sighting, there was more giggling and more salacious comments. But as the morning dragged on, the giggles eventually died down because it seemed that we had walked roughly 93 million miles and still saw nothing on our map.
We were aiming for Union Square, because we figured it was the biggest landmark on our map, and it was the one place where we figured we had the best chance of meeting up with another group from our class.
"Ryan, which way do we go?" I asked. Ryan unfolded the map and scrutinized the photocopied lines.
"Looks like a few more blocks up, and then we turn left, and then a few blocks more. I think."
"Screw that," Dwight said. "I'm starving. Let's get something to eat."
"But if we stop to get something to eat, we might miss everyone and then we'll be stuck here."
"Yeah, well if I die of starvation, it won't really matter anyway, will it?"
"I'm hungry, too," Mike said in his quiet, Oklahoma drawl. He was the tallest of our group, decked out in his leather bomber jacket and aviator shades. Having a tall guy in our group made us feel a little safer.
"All right," Dwight said. "Who wants to eat?" Everyone but me raised his hand.
So we popped in to the nearest deli and grabbed some grub. I didn't want to blow all my money, especially if I needed to make a long-distance call later (yes, in case I haven't made it clear, I was a compulsive worrier), so I made do with a root beer. Dwight offered to go splitsies on his sandwich to whoever wanted the other half, which I thought was decent of him.
In reality, it probably took longer to get our orders than it did to eat and drink everything. We were back on the street shortly. We'd go down a few blocks, and when the scenery changed noticeably--like more places with bars on the windows and doors and fewer tourists, we backtracked and tried another avenue.
Somehow we managed to get to Union Square, which was a tremendous relief.
"Ryan, the map," I said. He handed it to me. And immediately, I realized what the problem was.
"What?" Jim asked, noting the look on my face.
"According to this, Macy's should be over there," I said, pointing to the far end of the square. "But here it is on the opposite side."
"Are you looking at that thing right?" Dwight asked.
"Ryan, is this how you've had the map all day?" Jim asked.
"Well, yeah. See, this part is the top, right?"
"No."
Somehow we'd managed to make it to Union Square because we were so piss-poor at following directions from a map that had been held upside-down the whole time. We didn't give Ryan too much crap for it; he was a sixth-grader, after all. Plus, now that we had a solid point of reference, we figured we'd have no problem making it to the Opera House in time.
Still, we didn't know what time it was, and apparently it didn't occur to us to ask someone (I know I was too shy), so we pressed on. But not before making one brief detour on the way there. This detour would set into motion a series of events that would likely still be disputed today if all the parties got together.
To be continued...
Everyone ready? OK.
We thought we were in big trouble. Our teacher went over the importance of staying with our chaperons at all times, and barely an hour into our trip, we'd already lost them.
Even more pressing was the fact that they knew where we were going; us, not so much. We had the hand-drawn map, and that was about it. None of us had a working watch, which was part of the reason we hustled to meet back at our rendezvous point.
Maybe we misunderstood where we were supposed to meet. We didn't think so, but we didn't have any other explanation. While I had visions of calling my parents to pick me up in San Francisco, we decided to do our best to get to our final destination.
We appointed Ryan, the lone sixth-grader in our group, to be the map holder. Dwight had been to the city a few times, which gave him seniority in the group. He led our excursion.
Technically, we'd both been to the city last year on another field trip, but the highlight of that trip was eating dim sum and sampling new cuisine. I got a tiny cup of tea that almost immediately made me sleepy, and a bowl of what was supposed to be tapioca pudding but had a skin on it about as thick as the bowl itself and the consistency of paste.
The highlight of that highlight was when Dwight, like many of our other classmates, ordered chicken feet and then proclaimed that his had athlete's foot.
Oh, and a few of the older kids in the class somehow managed to get locked in a church basement.
None of this really helped with navigating, though. On one hand, we were nervous, but on the other, we were free to do whatever we wanted. Nerds on the town. Party time.
Well, except for the fact that we didn't know what time it was. Worrywart that I am, I didn't want to check anything out until after we got to the Opera House. I figured that with our luck, we'd stop somewhere and end up missing everything by 10 minutes or something.
"We have plenty of time before we have to be there," Dwight explained. I knew he was right, but I still worried. Dwight suggested that I would worry less once I developed balls.
"That's not what your mom said."
We all were so conditioned to the insult-ridden jungle that was middle school, that it was second nature to just cap on someone if the opportunity was there. I learned 90 percent of all the filth I know now back in sixth and seventh grade. And this, before the Internet. I shudder now to realize the phrases that were bandied about by 11- and 12-year-olds.
Heck, when I moved to Tracy at the end of fifth grade, it was de rigueur to call everyone "scrotum."
It was nuts, I know.
Moving right along...
After a few blocks, we noticed one recurring feature on the streets of San Francisco. Newspaper vending machines. Or to be more precise, newspaper vending machines that featured publications with women clad in nothing but black bars and strategically placed stars. They didn't have papers like that back home. The closest we got to seeing boobies was watching scrambled Cinemax, squinting furiously in the hope of seeing something recognizable.
Don't act like you didn't do it, too, you perv.
With each sighting, there was more giggling and more salacious comments. But as the morning dragged on, the giggles eventually died down because it seemed that we had walked roughly 93 million miles and still saw nothing on our map.
We were aiming for Union Square, because we figured it was the biggest landmark on our map, and it was the one place where we figured we had the best chance of meeting up with another group from our class.
"Ryan, which way do we go?" I asked. Ryan unfolded the map and scrutinized the photocopied lines.
"Looks like a few more blocks up, and then we turn left, and then a few blocks more. I think."
"Screw that," Dwight said. "I'm starving. Let's get something to eat."
"But if we stop to get something to eat, we might miss everyone and then we'll be stuck here."
"Yeah, well if I die of starvation, it won't really matter anyway, will it?"
"I'm hungry, too," Mike said in his quiet, Oklahoma drawl. He was the tallest of our group, decked out in his leather bomber jacket and aviator shades. Having a tall guy in our group made us feel a little safer.
"All right," Dwight said. "Who wants to eat?" Everyone but me raised his hand.
So we popped in to the nearest deli and grabbed some grub. I didn't want to blow all my money, especially if I needed to make a long-distance call later (yes, in case I haven't made it clear, I was a compulsive worrier), so I made do with a root beer. Dwight offered to go splitsies on his sandwich to whoever wanted the other half, which I thought was decent of him.
In reality, it probably took longer to get our orders than it did to eat and drink everything. We were back on the street shortly. We'd go down a few blocks, and when the scenery changed noticeably--like more places with bars on the windows and doors and fewer tourists, we backtracked and tried another avenue.
Somehow we managed to get to Union Square, which was a tremendous relief.
"Ryan, the map," I said. He handed it to me. And immediately, I realized what the problem was.
"What?" Jim asked, noting the look on my face.
"According to this, Macy's should be over there," I said, pointing to the far end of the square. "But here it is on the opposite side."
"Are you looking at that thing right?" Dwight asked.
"Ryan, is this how you've had the map all day?" Jim asked.
"Well, yeah. See, this part is the top, right?"
"No."
Somehow we'd managed to make it to Union Square because we were so piss-poor at following directions from a map that had been held upside-down the whole time. We didn't give Ryan too much crap for it; he was a sixth-grader, after all. Plus, now that we had a solid point of reference, we figured we'd have no problem making it to the Opera House in time.
Still, we didn't know what time it was, and apparently it didn't occur to us to ask someone (I know I was too shy), so we pressed on. But not before making one brief detour on the way there. This detour would set into motion a series of events that would likely still be disputed today if all the parties got together.
To be continued...
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Field Trip, part one
I always assumed that the purpose of field trips was to provide education students wouldn't otherwise get being cooped up in a classroom.
We lived in a relatively small town; once you learned which gum machine at Kmart would give you unlimited chiclets if you turned it just the right way, a seventh-grader had pretty much done it all.
The reasons we kids loved field trips was not becuse we could screw around. It was because we could screw around in scenic locales.
This was back when parents still were allowed to caravan to our destinations. Each parent (or pair of parents) was assigned a handful of kids they'd drive, usually their kid and the kid's friends.
My group's chaperons were the school psychologist, and--if memory serves--the director of the gifted education program. There's a reason I'm a little fuzzy on this point; I'll get to that shortly.
After a quick jaunt on the freeway, we were then to take BART from the Bay Fair Mall (which was then the closest station to us).
Again, being somewhat sheltered, getting to ride BART was a minor thrill. Alas, after riding it every day to and from work, the thrill has now diminished somewhat. But at the time, it was great sport to spot abandoned factories and claim that they were classmates' houses.
It was the mid-80s. What you wore and how rich you were perceived to be could make or break you like few other eras (he said, not having been in school for ages to even know if it's true).
After a few rousing sessions of "Hey, there's your mom," pointing to anyone who looked remotely disheveled, we arrived at Embarcadero Station. We deboarded and filed back into our groups.
Four seventh-graders and one sixth-grader comprised our group. As I can't swear to every detail, I'm not going to use their real names. There's another reason this is useful, too, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
No doubt realizing the chore that lay ahead of them (mischievous "smart" kids can be insufferable pains in the ass), our chaperons made a beeline for the nearest coffee dealer. They also generously treated the five of us to very rich, very hot cocoa.
The beauty of this trip was that, aside from getting to the War Memorial Opera House by the early afternoon to catch The Nutcracker, our groups were free to take in the winter wonderland that was San Francisco at Christmastime.
Each group was armed with a hand-drawn map that highlighted various must-see attractions. The chaperons also had at least a passing familiarity with the area.
I was hoping to talk the group into checking out a comic book store, but being the class dork, I knew that wasn't entirely likely.
Yes, I was the dork in a class of nerds. There's always someone at the bottom.
After scalding my tongue, I waited for my hot chocolate to cool a bit. Anywhere under 1,000 degrees Kelvin would be fine. While I gingerly took another sip, a deal was being made.
Our keepers wanted to look at boring grown-up stuff (my recollection is antique furniture, but I could be wrong), and we wanted to check out the toy store one floor up.
The deal: They'd check out their crap, we'd check out ours, and we'd meet back down there in 10 minutes.
Up we went. I knew exactly which Super Powers figures I needed to complete my collection, so that's what I was looking for. My best friend Jim and I looked together. Not only did they not have the figures on my list, they didn't even carry any of them. Bah.
After looking at the rest of the store's meager offerings, we regrouped and headed back downstairs. We were proud of ourselves; not only were we back in time, but we were there ahead of our chaperons.
Not only that, but they were late. After waiting, another group member, Dwight, went into the boring grown-up store. He returned, looking mildly worried.
They were nowhere to be found. Once the gravity of our situation sank in and we realized that an 11-year-old and four 12-year-olds were now left to navigate through a large metropolitan area they had no familiarity with, we were unanimous in our sentiment.
Dwight gave voice to that sentiment.
"Well, shit. Now what?"
To be continued...
We lived in a relatively small town; once you learned which gum machine at Kmart would give you unlimited chiclets if you turned it just the right way, a seventh-grader had pretty much done it all.
The reasons we kids loved field trips was not becuse we could screw around. It was because we could screw around in scenic locales.
This was back when parents still were allowed to caravan to our destinations. Each parent (or pair of parents) was assigned a handful of kids they'd drive, usually their kid and the kid's friends.
My group's chaperons were the school psychologist, and--if memory serves--the director of the gifted education program. There's a reason I'm a little fuzzy on this point; I'll get to that shortly.
After a quick jaunt on the freeway, we were then to take BART from the Bay Fair Mall (which was then the closest station to us).
Again, being somewhat sheltered, getting to ride BART was a minor thrill. Alas, after riding it every day to and from work, the thrill has now diminished somewhat. But at the time, it was great sport to spot abandoned factories and claim that they were classmates' houses.
It was the mid-80s. What you wore and how rich you were perceived to be could make or break you like few other eras (he said, not having been in school for ages to even know if it's true).
After a few rousing sessions of "Hey, there's your mom," pointing to anyone who looked remotely disheveled, we arrived at Embarcadero Station. We deboarded and filed back into our groups.
Four seventh-graders and one sixth-grader comprised our group. As I can't swear to every detail, I'm not going to use their real names. There's another reason this is useful, too, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
No doubt realizing the chore that lay ahead of them (mischievous "smart" kids can be insufferable pains in the ass), our chaperons made a beeline for the nearest coffee dealer. They also generously treated the five of us to very rich, very hot cocoa.
The beauty of this trip was that, aside from getting to the War Memorial Opera House by the early afternoon to catch The Nutcracker, our groups were free to take in the winter wonderland that was San Francisco at Christmastime.
Each group was armed with a hand-drawn map that highlighted various must-see attractions. The chaperons also had at least a passing familiarity with the area.
I was hoping to talk the group into checking out a comic book store, but being the class dork, I knew that wasn't entirely likely.
Yes, I was the dork in a class of nerds. There's always someone at the bottom.
After scalding my tongue, I waited for my hot chocolate to cool a bit. Anywhere under 1,000 degrees Kelvin would be fine. While I gingerly took another sip, a deal was being made.
Our keepers wanted to look at boring grown-up stuff (my recollection is antique furniture, but I could be wrong), and we wanted to check out the toy store one floor up.
The deal: They'd check out their crap, we'd check out ours, and we'd meet back down there in 10 minutes.
Up we went. I knew exactly which Super Powers figures I needed to complete my collection, so that's what I was looking for. My best friend Jim and I looked together. Not only did they not have the figures on my list, they didn't even carry any of them. Bah.
After looking at the rest of the store's meager offerings, we regrouped and headed back downstairs. We were proud of ourselves; not only were we back in time, but we were there ahead of our chaperons.
Not only that, but they were late. After waiting, another group member, Dwight, went into the boring grown-up store. He returned, looking mildly worried.
They were nowhere to be found. Once the gravity of our situation sank in and we realized that an 11-year-old and four 12-year-olds were now left to navigate through a large metropolitan area they had no familiarity with, we were unanimous in our sentiment.
Dwight gave voice to that sentiment.
"Well, shit. Now what?"
To be continued...
Monday, May 12, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Tuesday's child is full of FAIL
I've never been particularly graceful, thus shooting the whole "Tuesday's child is full of grace" thing all to hell.
But when I dipped into my baby book to see how old I was when I hit a baby milestone recently, I noticed that I had a lot of coordination trouble. Here are the top 5 greatest hits, so to speak (with approximate age):
1. This is the first one I actually remember, as I had just turned 4. I was at preschool on the swing set. Always the social butterly, I was swinging on a two-person swing. I think it was one of the ones that looked like a seesaw.
It was almost time to go back inside, and while my classmates weren't having any trouble with this, I was. Being short, my feet couldn't quite reach the ground, and since I was riding solo, I had no one to help me.
Well, I didn't want to be late, so I thought if I grabbed part of the main frame, that would slow me down enough, and I could hop off. Note that waiting for a minute or two while I slowed down naturally didn't actually occur to me.
I grabbed the bar as I was swinging back, and I guess I miscalculated. I heard a giant gong, and it felt like the back of my head was on fire.
Yep, I practically brained myself because I didn't want to be late for making macaroni arts and crafts.
The result: "Bled for a while, but was fine afterward. No swelling."
This filled up the Accidents page in my baby book before I even made it to school, where I was the Gerald Ford of Portola Elementary School.
I'm not exaggerating. I was on a first-name basis with Lindy, the secretary, and every time I came into the office, she'd turn to the mini-fridge next to her and reach for an icepack for me.
I would trip constantly, slide occasionally -- one time requiring a quick trip home to change clothes, as I'd slid all the way up my left side in mud during soccer at recess -- and I ran into stuff a lot.
You'd think a giant storage locker bigger than a Dumpster would be a pretty easy thing to work around, right?
During a game of Soak 'Em (or Bombardment, depending on where you went to school), I saw a random ball bounce near me. I ran for it at top speed to get it before one of the bigger kids did, and somehow neglected to factor in that giant storage locker, which I plowed into with the top right side of my head.
No blood, but a ginormous goose egg was sprouting on my head, which meant that my record, if not my skull, was broken, and it was off for another icepack from Lindy.
To add insult to injury, I had to do a speech in front of the class that day, which I did, holding the ice on my dome.
And no, it wasn't on playground safety.
But when I dipped into my baby book to see how old I was when I hit a baby milestone recently, I noticed that I had a lot of coordination trouble. Here are the top 5 greatest hits, so to speak (with approximate age):
5. (5 months) Hit head against fireplace bricks at grandparents' house. Result: "Small bruise on forehead -- fine afterward."
4. (1 year) Fell down in back yard and split open my top lip. Result: "Swelling went down after a couple of hours."
3. (13 months) Stepped on a sewing needed; it almost went completely through my foot. My mom has told me about this one. apparently, the head of the needle was poking up, tentpole-style, in the skin on the top of my foot. Result: "It hardly bled at all. Jeff didn't cry much at all. Fine a few minutes later."
2. (16 months) Fell on the floor while sucking on a bottle. Cut lip on outside. Result: "Cut bled pretty good. Jeff was fine as soon as he was given an ice cube to suck on." One of the big memories of my childhood is the taste of an ice cube wrapped in a paper towel. This happened so often, I thought it was one of the major food groups.
1. This is the first one I actually remember, as I had just turned 4. I was at preschool on the swing set. Always the social butterly, I was swinging on a two-person swing. I think it was one of the ones that looked like a seesaw.
It was almost time to go back inside, and while my classmates weren't having any trouble with this, I was. Being short, my feet couldn't quite reach the ground, and since I was riding solo, I had no one to help me.
Well, I didn't want to be late, so I thought if I grabbed part of the main frame, that would slow me down enough, and I could hop off. Note that waiting for a minute or two while I slowed down naturally didn't actually occur to me.
I grabbed the bar as I was swinging back, and I guess I miscalculated. I heard a giant gong, and it felt like the back of my head was on fire.
Yep, I practically brained myself because I didn't want to be late for making macaroni arts and crafts.
The result: "Bled for a while, but was fine afterward. No swelling."
This filled up the Accidents page in my baby book before I even made it to school, where I was the Gerald Ford of Portola Elementary School.
I'm not exaggerating. I was on a first-name basis with Lindy, the secretary, and every time I came into the office, she'd turn to the mini-fridge next to her and reach for an icepack for me.
I would trip constantly, slide occasionally -- one time requiring a quick trip home to change clothes, as I'd slid all the way up my left side in mud during soccer at recess -- and I ran into stuff a lot.
You'd think a giant storage locker bigger than a Dumpster would be a pretty easy thing to work around, right?
During a game of Soak 'Em (or Bombardment, depending on where you went to school), I saw a random ball bounce near me. I ran for it at top speed to get it before one of the bigger kids did, and somehow neglected to factor in that giant storage locker, which I plowed into with the top right side of my head.
No blood, but a ginormous goose egg was sprouting on my head, which meant that my record, if not my skull, was broken, and it was off for another icepack from Lindy.
To add insult to injury, I had to do a speech in front of the class that day, which I did, holding the ice on my dome.
And no, it wasn't on playground safety.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Wicked garden
April, 1979.
In a few more weeks, I'd officially be a big brother. For now, I just wanted to help where possible. I was practically a man at that point -- 4 1/2 -- and I knew that I needed to help around around the house.
Aside from cleaning my room. That just was not going to happen. Once, lured with the promise of cinnamon rolls, I managed a blitzkrieg on the clutter in my room. But as I neared my deadline, I ended up shoving half the stuff under my bed, feigning surprise when my mom pointed it out during the pre-cinnamon roll inspection.
But this day was one of those blue sky California days; not too hot, not too cold. And being 4 1/2, I wanted to get out of the house. It was after noon, so The Monkees was already over. It was a bunch of boring junk until the afternoon, and I had time to kill.
So I asked my mom if I could water the garden in the back yard. I had a feeling what the answer would be; after what happened the first time I watered the lawn, I was not asked to return to that job.
In my defense, I was a little fuzzy on homonyms as a 3-year-old, so when my mom asked if I could be a dear and water the lawn while she pulled some weeds, I thought she meant "deer" and peed on the grass.
Perfectly honest mistake.
But if I couched this latest request in the guise of being helpful, I thought it would improve my chances.
"Mommy," I said, putting on my best doe-eyed face, "Can I go water the garden?" She was about to say something when her face changed suddenly, like someone had just kicked her or something.
"All right," she said.
I jumped up and down in excitement and ran to the back door.
"Jeffrey?"
"Huh?"
"This time, if you have to go pee-pee, come in the house, okay?"
"I know, Mom," I said, rolling my eyes before heading out the door.
Suddenly, I was a cowboy in the Old West, heading to a showdown. I imagined my spurs clanging as I hiked up my Toughskins (a size too big so I'd grow into them) and prepared to face off with some no-account villain.
I'd seen lots of John Wayne movies by that time, so I had the walk down pat. It was sort of the same walk I did when I got a wedgie. Just more dignified.
I saw my "gun" lying near the shed. Our garden hose had a pistol grip on it that made it easy to target certain plants (or any stray cats on fences). If you wanted the continuous stream, a little ring flipped down to hold the trigger in place, sort of like on gas nozzles.
I turned the faucet, and watched the hose seem to spring to life like an angry snake. Tiny jets of water streamed out where the hose connected to the faucet. Everything was ready.
I grabbed the hose in my right hand and clasped my left over it to steady it as I unleashed the fury of botanical badassery.
I was now in control of nature and my own destiny. I was watering the garden -- all by myself! John Wayne would be proud.
And after I'd made my first sweep of the garden, I got a little cocky. Surely I didn't need both hands to steady the hose. In fact, I could do a quick draw, just like The Duke himself.
I slung my shooting iron in my imaginary holster and got ready to draw, legs akimbo like any good gunfighter. My pants hung low; better to imitate chaps.
I drew.
I won.
All the plants in the garden were victims of my shooting spree. It took all the strength I had in my right hand to keep the hose from getting away from me, but I was doing it.
Just when I felt uberconfident, my pants slipped even lower. Beyond chaps territory. If I didn't grab them, anyone walking into our back yard would have a good chance at seeing me in my skivvies. What if it was a -- gulp -- girl?
Well, that just wouldn't do.
I let go of the trigger so I could set the hose down and fix my pants, but that's when I found that during my superfast quick draw, I knocked the ring over, keeping the stream going whether I held the trigger or not.
I tried to hitch up my pants in one hand while holding onto the hose with the other, but by that point, the trigger was wet and slippery, and I lost grip of the handle.
As the first jet of extremely cold water hit me in the face, I must have screamed. Something got my mom's attention. Luckily she had the camera nearby so she could capture for posterity what she saw when she went to see what I was screaming about.
Thus ended my desire to do any gardening-related chores.
In a few more weeks, I'd officially be a big brother. For now, I just wanted to help where possible. I was practically a man at that point -- 4 1/2 -- and I knew that I needed to help around around the house.
Aside from cleaning my room. That just was not going to happen. Once, lured with the promise of cinnamon rolls, I managed a blitzkrieg on the clutter in my room. But as I neared my deadline, I ended up shoving half the stuff under my bed, feigning surprise when my mom pointed it out during the pre-cinnamon roll inspection.
But this day was one of those blue sky California days; not too hot, not too cold. And being 4 1/2, I wanted to get out of the house. It was after noon, so The Monkees was already over. It was a bunch of boring junk until the afternoon, and I had time to kill.
So I asked my mom if I could water the garden in the back yard. I had a feeling what the answer would be; after what happened the first time I watered the lawn, I was not asked to return to that job.
In my defense, I was a little fuzzy on homonyms as a 3-year-old, so when my mom asked if I could be a dear and water the lawn while she pulled some weeds, I thought she meant "deer" and peed on the grass.
Perfectly honest mistake.
But if I couched this latest request in the guise of being helpful, I thought it would improve my chances.
"Mommy," I said, putting on my best doe-eyed face, "Can I go water the garden?" She was about to say something when her face changed suddenly, like someone had just kicked her or something.
"All right," she said.
I jumped up and down in excitement and ran to the back door.
"Jeffrey?"
"Huh?"
"This time, if you have to go pee-pee, come in the house, okay?"
"I know, Mom," I said, rolling my eyes before heading out the door.
Suddenly, I was a cowboy in the Old West, heading to a showdown. I imagined my spurs clanging as I hiked up my Toughskins (a size too big so I'd grow into them) and prepared to face off with some no-account villain.
I'd seen lots of John Wayne movies by that time, so I had the walk down pat. It was sort of the same walk I did when I got a wedgie. Just more dignified.
I saw my "gun" lying near the shed. Our garden hose had a pistol grip on it that made it easy to target certain plants (or any stray cats on fences). If you wanted the continuous stream, a little ring flipped down to hold the trigger in place, sort of like on gas nozzles.
I turned the faucet, and watched the hose seem to spring to life like an angry snake. Tiny jets of water streamed out where the hose connected to the faucet. Everything was ready.
I grabbed the hose in my right hand and clasped my left over it to steady it as I unleashed the fury of botanical badassery.
I was now in control of nature and my own destiny. I was watering the garden -- all by myself! John Wayne would be proud.
And after I'd made my first sweep of the garden, I got a little cocky. Surely I didn't need both hands to steady the hose. In fact, I could do a quick draw, just like The Duke himself.
I slung my shooting iron in my imaginary holster and got ready to draw, legs akimbo like any good gunfighter. My pants hung low; better to imitate chaps.
I drew.
I won.
All the plants in the garden were victims of my shooting spree. It took all the strength I had in my right hand to keep the hose from getting away from me, but I was doing it.
Just when I felt uberconfident, my pants slipped even lower. Beyond chaps territory. If I didn't grab them, anyone walking into our back yard would have a good chance at seeing me in my skivvies. What if it was a -- gulp -- girl?
Well, that just wouldn't do.
I let go of the trigger so I could set the hose down and fix my pants, but that's when I found that during my superfast quick draw, I knocked the ring over, keeping the stream going whether I held the trigger or not.
I tried to hitch up my pants in one hand while holding onto the hose with the other, but by that point, the trigger was wet and slippery, and I lost grip of the handle.
As the first jet of extremely cold water hit me in the face, I must have screamed. Something got my mom's attention. Luckily she had the camera nearby so she could capture for posterity what she saw when she went to see what I was screaming about.
Thus ended my desire to do any gardening-related chores.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
What is your earliest memory?
Memory is a weird thing. I've been told most of my life that I have an unusual memory. Actually, the word "unusual" comes up an awful lot, but that's another story...
I remember dreams I had when I was a kid (just the most vivid ones), and I remember specific conversations with people. And we all know about all the useless pop culture crap that has taken up permanent residence in my brain.
But the crap of it is that I don't really have an active control over what gets stored and what doesn't. I can try, sure (phone numbers, anniversaries, children's names, etc.), but every now and then I'll see something on TV or in a book or on YouTube, and there's like an explosion of memory. Sometimes it's a little overwhelming.
But I was thinking about it, and I'm curious as to what other people's earliest memories are. With that, if you could go ahead and share your earliest memory in the comments, that would totally rock.
I'll start, since it was my idea.
My earliest memory is being about 2 years old, walking into my parents' bedroom, where their black-and-white TV had a rerun of The Brady Bunch playing. While I was watching that, I remember the distinct sensation of the back of my diaper expanding.
That's about it. Sort of a memory fragment, but that's the earliest I remember without aid from a picture.
Knowing me, there's a very good chance that my last memory will also involve filling my diaper, watching a rerun of The Brady Bunch.
All right, now it's your turn. Join in the fun!
I remember dreams I had when I was a kid (just the most vivid ones), and I remember specific conversations with people. And we all know about all the useless pop culture crap that has taken up permanent residence in my brain.
But the crap of it is that I don't really have an active control over what gets stored and what doesn't. I can try, sure (phone numbers, anniversaries, children's names, etc.), but every now and then I'll see something on TV or in a book or on YouTube, and there's like an explosion of memory. Sometimes it's a little overwhelming.
But I was thinking about it, and I'm curious as to what other people's earliest memories are. With that, if you could go ahead and share your earliest memory in the comments, that would totally rock.
I'll start, since it was my idea.
My earliest memory is being about 2 years old, walking into my parents' bedroom, where their black-and-white TV had a rerun of The Brady Bunch playing. While I was watching that, I remember the distinct sensation of the back of my diaper expanding.
That's about it. Sort of a memory fragment, but that's the earliest I remember without aid from a picture.
Knowing me, there's a very good chance that my last memory will also involve filling my diaper, watching a rerun of The Brady Bunch.
All right, now it's your turn. Join in the fun!
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Never mind the bollocks...
Some of my memories are more fragments than actual narratives. And every now and then, something will remind me of them.
Doubly weird, it's like I had absolutely no recollection until the memory itself was triggered.
Like when we were in elementary school and at the end of the day, we had to put our chairs up on the tables. I think this was so it was easier for the custodians to clean the classroom after school, but I don't know for sure.
And other things I remember making complete sense at the time, but when I think of it now, it's completely bizarre.
I never understood why they made paste smell like wintergreen if they didn't want kids to eat it. That said, I never actually tasted it, thanks to the admonishments of much older kids (second-graders).
"Don't eat the paste," they told me.
"Why?"
They looked around, making sure the teacher wasn't lurking about. Finally, they told me.
"It'll stick your balls together."
Even as a first-grader, it made no sense to me how the paste would get from your stomach to your, um, ballular area, but I didn't want to take a chance, because I worried that if I ate paste, and my testimonials did get stuck together, I'd go to the doctor, who would look up from his clipboard with a disapproving look because with my luck, the only way in the whole world that would happen is if I did, in fact, eat paste.
Better safe than sorry, I say.
I'm a nut that way.
Don't get testy.
Doubly weird, it's like I had absolutely no recollection until the memory itself was triggered.
Like when we were in elementary school and at the end of the day, we had to put our chairs up on the tables. I think this was so it was easier for the custodians to clean the classroom after school, but I don't know for sure.
And other things I remember making complete sense at the time, but when I think of it now, it's completely bizarre.
I never understood why they made paste smell like wintergreen if they didn't want kids to eat it. That said, I never actually tasted it, thanks to the admonishments of much older kids (second-graders).
"Don't eat the paste," they told me.
"Why?"
They looked around, making sure the teacher wasn't lurking about. Finally, they told me.
"It'll stick your balls together."
Even as a first-grader, it made no sense to me how the paste would get from your stomach to your, um, ballular area, but I didn't want to take a chance, because I worried that if I ate paste, and my testimonials did get stuck together, I'd go to the doctor, who would look up from his clipboard with a disapproving look because with my luck, the only way in the whole world that would happen is if I did, in fact, eat paste.
Better safe than sorry, I say.
I'm a nut that way.
Don't get testy.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
What up, G?
I went on an archaeological expedition of sorts recently. With my parents as navigators, I headed to the Hayward/San Leandro/San Lorenzo area, which is where I lived until I was about 6 years old.
Even though I don't live that far away from there, I hadn't been back since I was in high school. During the whole time I was there, it was a little like being in a dream, as everything looked familiar, but a bit off.
Some buildings looked the same but housed different stores. Other buildings that I expected to see were gone, replaced by the same cookie-cutter strip-mall architecture found throughout the country.
We visited the San Lorenzo Public Library, where I got my very first library card when I was 4. The bench upon which I shakily signed my name on my card had been replaced by self-serve stations to check out books, but the swing set out in the little playground outside the library was still there. My son, Brody, got in a bit of swinging time himself, which he enjoyed quite a bit.
One of our last stops was around where the old Doggie Diner used to be in San Lorenzo. Much to my dismay, the building that once housed the eatery is now home to a Starbucks.
I don't remember eating there, per se, but I know it made an impression on me, because it gave me a nightmare that to this day, I still remember.
I was 3, almost 4, when I had this dream. In it, it's almost bedtime, and I'm sitting on my bed, getting ready to take off my socks (brown with a white and a tan stripe). The hallway that led to my room is dark, the only light coming from the living room. As my door is open, I see a shadowy figure skulking toward my room.
It is the Doggie Diner mascot, impossibly tall, like Clifford the Big Red Dog, and before I can hop off my bed, he scoops me up in one hand. I was worried that he was going to eat me, but he doesn't. Instead, he tickles me. I'm laughing so hard that I can hardly breathe. And then I woke up.
Why I remember this almost 30 years later, I can't begin to explain.
I remember seeing the giant dog mascot every time we went to Gemco, which was across the street from Doggie Diner. Not too far from there is Black Angus, which also holds a permanent place in my early childhood memory.
I was in the car with my parents; I was probably 4 years old, tops; I don't remember my brother having been born yet. We drove by the restaurant in the early evening, when the sign was lit up. I heard some suppressed giggles from the front seat, and my ears perked up. I was always on the lookout for anything that made people laugh.
As it turns out, the "G" on the Black Angus sign was burned out. But I didn't know why it was funny, being only 4.
"What's a anus?" I asked.
This just prompted more laughter, and I don't think I actually got my question answered. To this day, every time I pass a Black Angus, I always look to see if the "G" is lit up, much to my wife's delight, I'm sure.
Even though I don't live that far away from there, I hadn't been back since I was in high school. During the whole time I was there, it was a little like being in a dream, as everything looked familiar, but a bit off.
Some buildings looked the same but housed different stores. Other buildings that I expected to see were gone, replaced by the same cookie-cutter strip-mall architecture found throughout the country.
We visited the San Lorenzo Public Library, where I got my very first library card when I was 4. The bench upon which I shakily signed my name on my card had been replaced by self-serve stations to check out books, but the swing set out in the little playground outside the library was still there. My son, Brody, got in a bit of swinging time himself, which he enjoyed quite a bit.
One of our last stops was around where the old Doggie Diner used to be in San Lorenzo. Much to my dismay, the building that once housed the eatery is now home to a Starbucks.
I don't remember eating there, per se, but I know it made an impression on me, because it gave me a nightmare that to this day, I still remember.
I was 3, almost 4, when I had this dream. In it, it's almost bedtime, and I'm sitting on my bed, getting ready to take off my socks (brown with a white and a tan stripe). The hallway that led to my room is dark, the only light coming from the living room. As my door is open, I see a shadowy figure skulking toward my room.
It is the Doggie Diner mascot, impossibly tall, like Clifford the Big Red Dog, and before I can hop off my bed, he scoops me up in one hand. I was worried that he was going to eat me, but he doesn't. Instead, he tickles me. I'm laughing so hard that I can hardly breathe. And then I woke up.
Why I remember this almost 30 years later, I can't begin to explain.
I remember seeing the giant dog mascot every time we went to Gemco, which was across the street from Doggie Diner. Not too far from there is Black Angus, which also holds a permanent place in my early childhood memory.
I was in the car with my parents; I was probably 4 years old, tops; I don't remember my brother having been born yet. We drove by the restaurant in the early evening, when the sign was lit up. I heard some suppressed giggles from the front seat, and my ears perked up. I was always on the lookout for anything that made people laugh.
As it turns out, the "G" on the Black Angus sign was burned out. But I didn't know why it was funny, being only 4.
"What's a anus?" I asked.
This just prompted more laughter, and I don't think I actually got my question answered. To this day, every time I pass a Black Angus, I always look to see if the "G" is lit up, much to my wife's delight, I'm sure.
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