BELLY LAUGHTER

BELLY LAUGHTER
(c) Jayson Slade 2010

I keep thinking I’m a grown up, but I’m not. I still laugh and cut up, but probably not enough. Not all the time like my daughter. I'd like to get just as giddy as my 10 year old, but it doesn't always work out that way. Most of the time I only wish I could be more like her. That’s my goal in life. I just want to be like my 10 year old. She has taught me more than any one person ever has. It’s quite simple. She just takes it all in stride. She’s happy when things are great and she’s sad when things are not. She never gets too awfully strung out in either of those two directions because she is smart enough to know that the other is just around the corner. Resilient? Nah. Brilliant? Maybe. Most things don’t turn out the way she wants them, so she hangs a sad face and in not time flat she’s back around the other corner making herself happy again. Why is it so easy for a 10 year old with limited knowledge and experience, yet it’s so hard for a man of nearly 40 who’s been around the block a few times? I noticed that I should be learning from what she’s teaching me about three years ago. She was just about to turn seven. I was in the living room and she was a few feet away in full earshot in her bedroom. I heard a snicker that became giggling which quickly turned into a belly roll of hysterical laughter. It went on for a minute or two. Almost like she couldn’t stop. Like she was being tickled. Tickled from the inside out. She kept on and on for at least a minute. A minute can be a long time to laugh. You should try it sometime. I was intrigued. It was not very unusual for Hannah to enjoy time in her room. In her space. With her stuff. But to hear her belly laugh was a little more than interesting. She must be looking at a funny book. Or, even more obviously, she must be watching a funny television show or movie. That’s it. She’s probably watching a movie and just got tickled. She got caught up in the misadventures of some pre-teen idol that I really wish didn’t to be quite so sarcastic to be funny. I walked into her bedroom. I couldn’t let an opportunity like this pass up. I knew that pretty soon she’d be more grown up than I could want to be and those deep-rooted belly laughs would be a thing of the past. I eased in, not to abruptly interrupt. She saw me approach. We made eye contact. Her ear to ear smile and giggles made her squint. Since we do try to teach respect for each other’s space at our house, I gently knocked alongside her door. She was almost out of breath. Her mouth was wide open and her face was a little pink. She was really worked up. The television was not on. All her books were put away. She was sitting in the floor playing with her cat. What had I missed? I had to ask the question. I wanted to join in. I love to laugh. I really wanted to know what I had missed.

Hey, baby, what in the world is so funny?

She looked back up towards me and in her squint found a way to make eye contact once more.

Oh, nothing… I’m just happy because my cat loves me.

And that was it. That was what I had missed. I had missed what was right there all the time. I know now that it wasn’t really the cat. I realize that it was her allowing everything to be simple enough that the cat was the most amazing thing in the world for that minute. Hannah reached up and gave me a big old hug. One of those hugs that just goes through you when you’re a dad. I didn’t want to let go. But I eventually had to. And when I did. I snickered. My snicker became a giggle. And within moments we were both laughing large. She, because her life was pretty simple. Me, because I was realizing that mine could be too. She, because her cat loved her. Me, because my daughter did the same. Although she’s ten now and quite the pre-teen herself, that childish uncontrollable belly laugh doesn’t peek in quite as often anymore. I think I really miss those the most. But gladly, they have been replaced with visible happy emotions that someone with my limited vocabulary can’t really put into words. That look in her eye when she says “Hey, dad. I love you,” right out of the blue. No motive. No reason. Just because. Those are the best. And how we’ll see that old familiar squinty grin in a few days when Santa comes again. Sometimes I wonder what will replace these happy times down the road. And then I realize it really doesn’t matter. They’ll be great too. Spending my time wondering about the future may just make me miss some of the present. And like they say. It’s called the present because it’s a gift. Today, I’ll take my gift.

Why have you not been blogging?

The first draft of my book is written. Working title: "Nothing In Casey." And I have to admit, I am more than just ok with it. It actually works! BTW, NaNoWriMo WINNER, right here! Yes, yes! I know. Thank you, really. No, really, sit, please. This is for sure, November has given me a newly gained respect for real writers. Blogging once every month or two was easy. But writing daily has put some hair on my chest. 200 or so pages later and I'm sitting on a two inch stack paper that holds one complete thought. What an amazing feeling. But finished means just beginning. It's time for the rewrite. Look out Barnes and Noble. Here I come.

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 1 of 6)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 1 of 6)

© Jayson Slade 2010

People didn't buy bottled water in 1979. If you had water in a bottle it was because you put it there. And it usually came from a garden hose. When you're a kid in the summertime in south Mississippi, water in a bottle was a thin, warm, stale syrup. It was always hot. Tray ice would never fit through the neck of the bottle and trying to break those cubes in my hand by popping them with a table spoon only seemed to hurt my fingers.

I once tried putting a bottle of water in the freezer until it was a block of curvy ice, but before I even get good and started on my yard chores, it was be melted. The Mississippi heat completely melted it. It was pretty damn hot, to say the least. This happened several times in a row before I finally got the point. God was probably laughing at me. One of the days I was doing yard might not seem quite as hot as the last and from time to time I'd always try it again. But never to any success. For a smart kid, I guess I was a little slow in the area of science and how that related to keeping water cold.

Eventually, I'd come to realize that ice in water worked better than solid ice. So I would use a jug, a cooler or a 30 gallon ice chest, depending on the job. Before I had been around long enough to celebrate double digits, there was usually a Sunday or two a month my dad would have me outside picking up limbs and pine cones so he could mow the yard. The area around our home was about two acres, so the routine was simple. My job was to pile up the limbs and about an hour later my dad would go behind me with a small trailer attached to his riding lawn mower. He'd pick them up and haul them off before eventually mowing the yard. Since I was a kid, my jobs were the safe ones. Not safe in the sense of I might not get hurt, but safe in the sense that if (read: when) I did get hurt one of my parents would be close by enough to attend first-aid before the blood went everywhere.


(to be continued)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 2 of 6)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 2 of 6)

© Jayson Slade 2010

My part of the yard work would probably have taken the standard adult about 30 minutes. But given my inablility to give a shit about finishing anything in a timely manner, my little 7 year old self would drag things out for hours on end. I'd moan. And I'd groan. The end result was almost always the same. My dad would come to me and give me some rationalization that being lazy was not what he expected, but it still didn't change things. Hot was hot. And hot meant slow. No matter what I did or how I thought, I couldn't see that being in a hurry had any merit. This was a trait I'd not soon outgrow.

I'm not sure if summertime in those days was actually hotter than it is now or if it just seemed hotter because of my build. I was about average height as the other 1st graders, but I wore ToughSkins. ToughSkins were dark blue jeans made of slightly thicker denim that never even looked comfortable. No matter how often they went through the washer they were still stale. The insides sported reinforced knees which were embarrassingly noticeable after just a few washings. They also made a horrible "swishy-swishy" sound with every step. I think ToughSkins and Chinet paper plates were created by the same guy.

My mom told me over and over I was to wear those targets of elementary ridicule because I was so rough on the knees of my pants, but I knew it was because I was chunky. I don't think I was fat. But I know I was chunky. I know this because my Mom insisted I was not chunky, which only proved that I really was.

Back in those days the highlight of the classroom was running toward your desk and sliding on your knees. Or running to the coat rack and sliding on your knees. Same with the lunch box cubby. I'd run, if the first two or three steps can actually be called running, full speed and drop to my knees. I'd slide a good half a foot or so along the hard tile of the classroom. It felt like three or four feet at 7 years old. I was an olympic star.

My mind conjured images of the long jump where Joe Hurdler lands heels first with arms out front in the sand as pebbles of sand and dirt skoonch into the air. His frontal thighs and chest meet, relaxing his backside into the sand. My version was only this glamorous in my own mind. But I could see it plainly there. I was a titan.


(to be continued)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 3 of 6)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 3 of 6)

© Jayson Slade 2010

From time to time this sliding would do a number on my knee caps, a thing I'd regret soon after my college years, but it most certainly took a heavy toll on my jeans right then. Some kids got spanked or grounded because of spills or stains on their clothes. I got in trouble for rubbing the knees out. My dad used to say that his job was to have me at least three complete outfits. "One clean. One dirty. And one being worn. The rest was just extra", he'd say. I had several more than just those three, but they all had one thing in common. The Chinet shards were protruding through the knees like broken cardboard. I'd just have to get used to this.

It was very cool growing up in 1979. Things were calm. I enjoyed school and school work, but at this point school was out for summer and I wasn't always enjoying my time off at home. Home was hot. And I had yard chores to do. It sucked doing yard chores. Luckily, I soon realized that as long as I didn't do too good a job, then I wouldn't usually get very many new assignments. And if I did, at least they'd be about the same as far as their complexity. Very similar to that first time you make it known that you know how to properly load the dishwasher. Soon it just becomes your job. I didn’t want that to happen again. I don't know if my dad caught on to my scheme and just let me slide on the harder stuff or if he might've thought I was just a bit of a tard.

Either way, by having yard work and hating it, I taught myself to became a lackey. I wasn't really a dead beat, but definitely opposed to manual labor of any kind. Probably because it seemed like every time the wind blew in south Mississippi, one of two things would happen. Either 4,387 pine cones would suddenly drop to the ground, almost in unison, or bus loads of limbs would randomly fall from the trees, making the area around our home look like a bad move in Jenga. The problem was, the wind seemed to blow a lot.

I'd drag around the yard cursing elementary variations of profanities in my head about how bad I hated piling up limbs and sticks and pine cones and shit. Dad would come around periodically to relight the fire under my butt and I'd get it in gear enough to troggle through the next section. Usually anytime I could find good reason, I'd create a distraction. One legitimate distraction was always the garden hose. That was an easy fix.


(to be continued)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 4 of 6)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 4 of 6)

© Jayson Slade 2010

Many times I'd go meander off to grab the garden hose. Of course, it was primarily my job to keep that garden hose rolled up next to the faucet that came out of the side of the house. And because it was my job, chances are it was always strung out across the driveway or out in the yard like it was on this June day. I guess this wasn't so much a big deal to my dad since I didn't really get in much trouble whenever he found out about it.

Limb patrol was the 1979 version of being on restriction even though you weren't actually being punished. It was extremely boring. Miniature cassette players with headphones had not been invented yet. There was nothing to keep me occupied except the daunting task at hand. And it never happened on a breezy day. Windy days caused the problem. So why couldn't a breezy one take most of it away? Life is tough enough to make any sense when you're a kid. Not to mention the fact that It was hotter than hot. The sun burned fast and I moved slow. Any excuse to get side tracked was only one good idea away.

The best excuse, although legitimate, was thirst. Les than an hour into the day, the temperature felt like 127 degrees in the shade. Beads of sweat would be dripping without hesitation from my brow. It would roll down to my nose and that salty burn would almost always get in my eyes. I'd rub them and it would just get worse, like putting lemon juice on a paper cut, it burned. I could hear my dad as he'd always say, "You should wear a hat like me." But my dad was known for headware that looked like a cross between what Audrey Hepburn wore on The African Queen and what a Vietnamese guy would wear harvesting a rice paddy. I thought I'd deal with my eyes instead.


(to be continued)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 5 of 6)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 5 of 6)

© Jayson Slade 2010

Nobody used sunscreen in those days, so my skin felt like it was a little Worstershire sauce short of beef jerky. And I was thirsty by now. I mean damn thirsty. I may only do limb reconnaissance in low gear, but at that moment I'd have run the bases to get a drink of water. Full sprint to the garden hose by the carport. It wasn't rolled up. Of course it wasn't. That was my job. I'd make sure the faucet was turned on as far as it would go. It was. I'd trampse across carport gravel and follow the hose out into the yard. Not paying as much attention as I probably should, I'd have about a dozen ant bites and a couple of rock bruises before reaching the spray nozzle. Ah ha. There it was. Water. Agua.

I pronounced it with a "g" because my pre-elementary education consisted of Sesame Street's bilingual teaching methods. I.E. "boat... barco" or "dog... perro" and of course Kermit would sing "an apple is maaaanzaaaaanaaaa." So even though I did not speak fluent anything, except vanilla American, with much accuracy, I did watch alot of Sesame Street, so I knew, or didn't know as it would turn out, that water was pronounced "og-wah."

I raised the nozzle directly into my sun dried face and quickly pulled the trigger handle firmly. I was ready to enjoy the comfort of Mother Nature’s natural drink. But today would be the day that I'd be reminded of two very different things. A) just how much pressure could build up inside a stretched out garden hose that had been left wide open in the heat of the summer, and b) however much pressure it had build up, that shit gets hot.

I'm not sure if it was the scalding hot water that captivated my attention more or the immediate pain of having that first gallon of scalding water hit my face at 40 psi. Either way, I dropped the hose. It shut off automatically before it even hit the ground. Because of my carelessness it also took a gash out of my shin on the way down. Things didn't always have rounded edges in those days.

I shook my head, tossed my hair back and gathered what was left of my senses. Looking around for witnesses and seeing none, I picked the nozzle back up. This time pointing it in the other direction, I sprayed it out forward from myself for about half a minute. I held it wide open the whole time to let all the hot water escape. Checking from time to time with my finger instead of my cheek, I saw it was cooling off. It actually cooled off rather quickly to my surprise. Then, like any southern boy would, I folded the hose over and crinkled it between my stubby legs to cut off the pressure and unscrewed the sprayer off the end.


(to be concluded)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 6 of 6)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 6 of 6)

© Jayson Slade 2010

The cool water flowed out in a girgling, rhythmic motion. It came out from the hose and splashed onto my bare feet. It was nice. It was cool and it was nice. I'd put the hose to my mouth now and this time I'd enjoy it's Earthy goodness in comfort. Today we enjoy our bottled water as we do a watch or a cell phone. It's just there. We hardly could imagine being without it for any length of time. Always having it within arms reach when we may be away from the house or the office is just standard. Sometimes we are only away for minutes at a time, but the bottled water is always near. But when you're 7 years old, doing chores you hate, sweating like a whore in church, with ant bites up to your knees, bruises on your feet, eyes afire and trying to come out of a state of shock from the bloody mess running down your leg, you just can't beat grabbing the nearest garden hose and taking a gulp.

The amazing flavor of the water from a rubber garden hose is unique. Sure there might have been dirt around the metal tip and some shit that looked like it came off grandpa's toenails spotted around the rubber end, but it tasted fine. It wouldn't have hurt us either. It couldn't. Our little bodies got plenty of practice in those days. A little dirt never hurt anybody on our street.

I could have dropped that hose tip in dog shit and it wouldn't have mattered. I'd wipe it off a little then let it run a minute to clean itself off. And stick it right in your mouth. The kids back then didn't know about any five second rule. That wasn't even necessary. We just drank from it. It tasted like summertime. It tasted like Heaven. Well, maybe not exactly Heaven. But it did taste like new plastic smells. It was thick and it was delicious. I'm surprised I never chipped my teeth on the threads of the metal fitting on that hose, but I didn't. And if I had, my dad was always a scream away.

Eventually, my dad would come back around and take up my slack with the limbs and the pine cones. And before it was all done, we'd both drink from the garden hose a couple more times. It was great. Afterward, he'd mow the grass while me and my ant bites would go on back inside the house where'd I'd be a kid just a little bit longer.


the end

The Swagger Wagon

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ql-N3F1FhW4&sns=em

Sent from my iPhone

On Being the Best (part 2 of 2)

On Being the Best (part 2 of 2)
 Feb 19, 2010

He had the makings of a pro back in 1978, at the age of 2, when he putted against Bob Hope on The Mike Douglas Show. This guy has been in the spotlight since before kindergarten. You and I can not even come close to imagining what that must be like.

Now that we’ve established that he’s the best, let's establish one more thing.

Remember the whole O.J. trial?

O.J. found out that his wife, the mother of his kids, was sleeping around on him in the house that he paid for, with the waiter from their restaurant, riding around with that waiter in the car that he bought and she didn’t even try to be sneaky about it.

In the words of Chris Rock, “I ain’t gonna kill nobody, but if he did… I understand.”

And O.J. wasn’t even the best.

We, the people, gave O.J. a mulligan.

I was in Wal-Mart the other day and this kid about 7 years old was whining and bitchin’ and moanin’ about waaaah wah wah… His momma told him to shut his mouth. He told her to shut up. His momma picked him up by his ear lobe with one hand. (His feet just about left the floor.) She twisted his arm behind his back like on Cops. She lifted him by the back side of his britches with her free hand and drug his little ass out of the store.

Now, I’m not gonna condone the abuse of America’s youth, but if she did… I understand.

And she’s not the best either.

We, the bystanders, gave her a mulligan.

So Tiger gets all this money, all this fame, all this support from the world for being the best! Then he gets caught doing something a little out of our idea of what his character should be.

Why do we really care where he puts his penis? David Bowie and George Michael are two perfect examples of how it's ok not to be concerned with the places a person puts their genitals.

People say that his wife is beautiful, that she’s a model. Well she’s obviously not the best! She’s got to be lacking in a few areas. She comes short in some department. (No pun intended.) We all know that for every beautiful woman in the world, there’s at least one guy that’s tired of putting up with her shit. Maybe Tiger has been telling her for years “baby, I’m tired of your shit.” Then again, maybe she’s tired of his… who knows?

But one thing’s for sure. So many people in the world get a mulligan when they get busted, and they don’t even deserve it because they aren’t the best.

So Tiger is 9 over par. I don’t remember Wilt Chamberlain feeling like he had to go into any form of seclusion and he supposedly slept with 20,000 women. Tiger had 9. Do the math.

Maybe the money from razor blades and sneakers weren’t the motivators he needed.

Maybe slacking down on the strange is gonna prove to be his kryptonite.

We'll see.

And it may never happen, but if it does… I understand.

On Being the Best (part 1 of 2)

On Being the Best (part 1 of 2)
Feb 19, 2010

Tiger Woods is the undisputed best golfer in the world. He has been for over a decade. You and I can not imagine what it’s like to be the best at anything. None of us can. Rarely is anyone ever the best at anything.

I’m really good at what I do for a living, but I’m not the best. I couldn’t even imagine what it must be like to just know, beyond the shadow of any doubt, that I was the best at anything. I’m really good at what I do, but I’m not the best. I’ll bet you there’s a guy that does what I do everyday and he is probably better at it than me. Hell, there’s probably a guy better than me in my own town or even on my street. No, I’m not the best.
But Tiger is the best.

Sinatra was a great singer and performer, but he wasn’t the best.
Babe Ruth was a great baseball player, but he wasn’t the best.
Drew Brees is the greatest quarterback our area has seen in years, but he’s not the best.
Tom Cruise has made a gazillion dollars acting in movies, but he’s not the best.

Think about it… in what area of anything (sports, music, acting, anything) is there one single undisputed person that is the best? I can’t think of a single one. There are lots and lots of “really goods” and those that are “up there”, but no other bests.

So how do we know what it’s like? Easy... we don’t.

This guy has got more money than he could ever spend. Gillette, Nike, ATT&T and countless others have given this guy more than any other golfer in the history of the entire world. And he’s worth it. He out performs absolutely everyone that challenges him. And he is consistent. He’s the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a sure thing in my lifetime. Can you imagine what kind of confidence a guy like that has got? He is made of balls! And they are Titleist!

He doesn’t walk up to the tee and say to himself “Oooh, shit… I hope I don’t fuck this up with all these people watchin’.”

Heck no! He’s the best!

He approaches, takes his aim (or whatever people like him take) and simply uses the little club to put the little ball in the little cup. And he does it in the fewest number of tries. He probably doesn’t even think about it. He’s got his own God-Given Auto Pilot! He doesn't do, he just does. He is the best. He always has been.


I think that if he's only slept with 9 other women and he's the best, then he has massive self control. Think about the masses of women that probably threw themselves at him daily. It's amazing he only cracked 9.


(to be concluded...)

The Giraffe Effect (part 4 of 4)

The Giraffe Effect (part 4 of 4)
Feb 11, 2010


For me, the belief in some power greater than ourselves is very necessary in getting through the struggles of daily life. We all know that laughter is the best healer. And honestly, none of our kids would be here if we all didn’t have a pretty sizeable interest in sex. Do we agree so far? Ok. So at least we sort of, kinda, mostly agree to this. That’s a start.


But you just have to admit, it’s a tad bit extreme to change gears so quickly within the same browser.


So for all you guys (like me) that love the female body… for goodness sake, send ‘em on! The more the merrier.


But let’s decide now if our email relationship is gonna be Biblical or booblical. I just don’t know if I can handle both. I get more confused than a pre-pubescent gaylord in gym class. It kinda makes me feel like I’m keeping secrets from The Big Guy upstairs. I know he knows, but lets not advertise.


Now, for the record, I have no interest in seeing who just signed up on Classmates.com. I’m not putting all my family pics on Flikr. I don’t do MySpace because I’m over the age of 12 and I’m not a perv. I do use facebook though. I like facebook. It’s right about “my speed.” But that doesn’t mean I want to add crops on Farmville. And lay off the Gangsta Wars or whatever it’s called. I’m also not interested in all the virtual drinks and quizzes. Besides, I really doubt that the prom queen from high school really has anything in common with Angelina Jolie anyway.


Come on… I'm perfectly capable of wasting my own time.


I do happen to like the birthday reminder on facebook quite a bit though. Probably because I am a firm believer that most people don’t call and tell you "happy birthday" because of that awkward silence or those meaningless minutes of conversation that always follow the actual statement of “happy birthday.” It's just too uncomfortable. For both sides. They don’t want to catch up on old times (neither do you) or to hear about all the local drama going on in your life, they just want to acknowledge the day for you. (Actually for them.) More accurately, they want you to know that they did it for you, but it's actually for them.


Here's how to tell. Try this the next time someone calls to tell you “happy birthday” or “happy anniversary” or whatever, take note of how many times you smile and nod while you’re on the phone. You will actually be smiling and nodding and they can’t even see you. It’s all fake. Then notice the awkward pauses. There will be at least two. Also, take note of how many times you say “yeeeees, yes, uh huh, yes.” Then there’s the more than awkward experience of getting off the phone without hurting Aunt Hilda’s feelings. She called from Minnesota for goodness sake. After all, you only talk to her once a year (or two), you owe it to her. Right? Forget about being late for work or burning dinner. Spend some time on the phone. Do it for her. Right? (Wrong.)


Does anyone else believe that birthday wishes give more satisfaction to the giver than the receiver??? Think about it. Most of the conversation (from both sides) is spoken in a way that's not to hurt the other person’s feelings. It’s a remarkable phenomenon. We all do it.


That’s why I think eCards are very under rated. Their motto should be “When you almost care enough to type the very least!” Hallmark, eat your heart out.


Here’s where I smile and nod.


Just sayin’…

The Giraffe Effect (part 3 of 4)

The Giraffe Effect (part 3 of 4)
Feb 11, 2010


Here's the way I figure it must have happened. Some point along the way, I must have said “bless you” after someone sneezed in public. Then they told somebody I was deeply religious. That person must have advertised the depth of my Christian values because almost daily, I receive prayer emails. I get a veritable plethora of Bible referenced passages and online documentation of how my soul will be saved only if I forward this message to at least 10 people.


You must admit that those emails are kind of weird. I have a hard time believing that Big Daddy up There has a T1 connection. I just don’t feel a need to bcc God. Sorry.


Let’s make matters a little worse. Apparently (no, obviously), at some point(s), I've had a positive reaction in front of other people involving a woman’s bare breast or the appealing nature of her body (sneaking a peak), because almost daily I receive nudie pictures in my inbox. And it’s not generally the classy WW2 calendar girl type either. It’s more of a Dom Perignon slash Louisville Slugger kind of gal-asaurus. Most are jokes. Usually, they involve a play on words. Some have wording about a camel’s foot and after scrolling to the bottom it reveals a close up pic of a woman’s private area in some really tight jogging pants or something. You get the idea.


Sometimes it’s a weight joke about how the female Rothlisberger fans must be large women compared to Romo fans in order for all the letters of his name to fit on the back side of their panties. Or how Ray Charles could go to California following the roadmap on those spider veins. You get the idea.


And I’m sure we’ve all seen Bob and the “little blue pill” jokes about the man at the doctor’s office asking about male enhancement.


That’s all well and good. Most of it is quite entertaining in an “I sure do hope nobody’s looking” kind of way.


However, the part out of all of this that blows my mind is when the same person sends me both religious emails and dirty jokes/porn. For example, I will get an email quoting the Bible and within minutes I’m getting another email from that same person showing me the up close and personals of a hairy broad that looks mostly like a cross between J. Edgar Hoover and Ernest Borgnine. I know for a fact that I’ve never had a conversation about church and ugly girls with big naturals. So what makes it ok in email? And what makes it ok, especially since we’ve only recently met. I’m just asking.


Please keep in mind… none of this offends me at all. That’s not the point. Again, I’m no prude. I just think it’s odd. What naughty school girls do during Spring Break when they are a thousand miles away from momma and daddy is their own business. I'm just paying for cable. I'm not making the movie.


So that’s not what I’m getting to at all. In fact, I think it’s hilarious. But unfortunately, I’m not laughing at the emails I get. (And I get a ton.) I’m laughing at the sender.


Think about it. I’m picturing the guy on the other end of the interwebs saying to himself “I know who’s going to have to see this!” And that person that's got to see it turns out to be me. Very strange that I always come to mind in this situation. Maybe it's some sort of oddball, weird, 21st century, single guy compliment.


(to be concluded…)

The Giraffe Effect (part 2 of 4)

The Giraffe Effect (part 2 of 4)
Feb 11, 2010


Thanks to the internets (lol), namely email and facebook, I am able to keep in contact with a large number of people that I’ve met over the years. Whether we were very close, passed in the halls of high school or college and never really got to know each other, or whether we drank really bad, warm, draft beer at Majestic's or Elsie's (ditto the apostrophe comment above), chances are, we feel like we know each other. And in most cases we do to some degree. Then, fast forward a few years. Slinging cards in casinos and coming up through the ranks selling cars on the coast, there’s been a few times that I ran into a chum with a bottle of rum and we wound up drinking all night (another Buffett quote that seems to fit.) So I know a lot of really good people. And I've had a lot of eclectic experiences with those people. Unfortunately, I just don’t care for giraffes.


Let me explain. It’s very similar to what my friend Lynsi calls “The Giraffe Effect.” She invited us over to see her new house last year and I couldn’t help but notice that she had several giraffes mixed in among all her decorations about the house. I saw a wooden giraffe on the mantle, a giraffe picture frame on the wall, a giraffe pillow on the couch and a stuffed giraffe chew toy for the puppy just to name a few. Having known Lynsi for a pretty good while, I never knew about her affinity for giraffes. So in making awkward conversation I said “I didn’t realize you liked giraffes so much.” To which she replied, “I don’t.” She continued “You make one 'that’s a cute giraffe' comment and that's all people give you.” She went on to say that it was easier to just smile and nod.


I completely understood that logic.


So here’s my giraffe.


As a kid I read and collected comic books. As an adult with a job and an above average income, I wanted to buy some of the rarer more expensive issues from the 1950s and 60s. However, this doesn’t necessarily mean that I have any intention of ever needing a set of Superman UNO cards or a Batman Frisbee.


Also, I currently own one of rarest lunchboxes ever produced, a Toppie, from the 1950s. Experts estimate that only about 21 to 25 were ever produced. It’s literally worth thousands. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that I like elephants very much or Green Stamps for that matter.


And I think that the possibility of one day owning an authenitc Superman Gum Card Mail-Away Secret Compartment Ring (that's a mouthful) from 1940 would be a heck of an addition to my pop culture collection. Collectors dream of those things! (I have to admit, it isn’t easy making the transition to grownup.) But don’t bring me a Twilight mood ring from Barnes & Noble because it reminded you of me. For one thing, you obviously don’t realize how hard real collectors try to distinguish themselves from the Twi-crap buyers. So don’t add to the agony. And second, hardly anyone that earns anything short of a doctor’s income could even afford the 1940 ring I mentioned above. It’s a tad bit pricey.


So how does all this fit in? I've noticed lately that I have to be really careful exactly what emails I forward and particularly who I forward those emails to. There's something in our society that makes it acceptable for anyone that might receive an email from me to put me on their forwarding list ad nauseum for every single bit of interweb nonsense that they read.


So The Giraffe Effect rears its ugly head in my inbox daily. This brings me to the incredibly poor taste, but necessary, issue of linking Biblical email and porn.


(to be continued...)

The Giraffe Effect (part 1 of 4)

The Giraffe Effect (part 1 of 4)
Feb 11, 2010

The fact that you are even reading this more than likely makes at least one of the following a true statement.

A) You know me
B) You have friends that know me
C) You’ve read my stuff before and you like it (or not, but you're not sure)
D) You want to forward me Bible verses and porn

Go figure…

A, B and C are rather self explanatory. As family and friends you probably read, or have read, my meaningless rants and psychobabble because of an unwritten rule that it’s just the right thing to do. “He’s family” or “he’s a nice guy” probably guilted you into this category. This is the same category of people that smile and say “fine, and you” when I say "how are you" or that laugh at a stupid joke I tell (because they don’t want to hurt my feelings.)

Then there's C. C is a bit trickier than A or B. C sort of puts you and me on the same wave length. It doesn’t necessarily mean that we know each other, per se. It just means that if we did, we’d probably hit it off. But whether we have met or will never meet is actually of very little or no consequence at all because we have that common factor. We’re on that same plane of existence. We both know the world can be a strange and inconsistent place. We both realize that 10 to 15 minutes of non-verbal, one-sided conversation can prove to be a closer bond than most people share in a lifetime. Why? Because it’s real. It’s true to life. We don’t always like to have a conversation with other people because we have to listen to the unnecessary drama that they verbally vomit and hurdle our way. But reading a blog allows you the ability to do only one thing. And that’s to play the part of listener. And with that, you can stop at any time. And if you are still with me this far down… thanks. I believe that all the Dr. Phil’s (I’m pretty sure an apostrophe doesn’t go there, but it looks right) of the world would agree with me on this.

All of which brings me to D.

I completely understand A, B and C. But D pretty much blows me away every time. Now I’m no prude. Far from it. I pray. I love to laugh. And I love the female body. (Too bad us guys got the short end of the stick in that department. No pun intended.) It’s quite easy to make fun of myself and make other people laugh though. I haven’t seen the world, but I’ve seen it’s underbelly a few times and it’s more fun to just smile and nod. There’s beauty in many things we take for granted. Through good times and riches and son-of-a-bitches, I’ve seen more than I can recall, as Jimmy Buffet would say. But what makes D the "social norm" from people that don’t fall into A, B or C? That’s just a little weird.

(to be continued...)

(Not So) Old Time Television

Jan 31, 2010

I've heard it takes a big man to admit he was wrong. I'm not necessarily that big man. Nor have I been so wrong that it would require a public demonstration of repent. However, I recently found out that Flounder and Newman are not one in the same. Now, for you to say "so what's your point?" would be a little too cliché. The point will follow.

It wasn't all that hard growing up with basically three channels on the television because it was just the way it was. The kids at school may have talked about watching shows I had never actually heard of, but for some reason instantly intrigued me nonetheless. But that "I want what I don't yet have" part of my human nature wasn't developing as quickly as armpit hair and zits.

We had ABC, NBC and Educational TV. I say "basically three" because there were others. At least some times there were others. If the weather was just right and if the wind was blowing our direction, the signals might just come in strong enough to warrant giving it a try via the old manual outside antenna. But even so, CBS was, for the most part, impossible. I wish I knew how many shows I watched sitting way up close to the TV screen and squinting my eyes ever so hard just to see between the staticy lines. Using my imagination to visualize an image that was only partially there made it all seem worth while. We won't even talk about the audio issues.

This sophomoric effort absolutely gave me the edge when friends would invite "the guys" over to watch satellite. This would always quickly become the upper "not actually porn" channels of satellite, Skin-a-max, we called them, that would come through after most parents had gone to bed. This is the same satellite that still sits in their back yards to this day. The one that's so big I used to think it could catch every foul ball in Yankee Stadium, not to mention the local venue, The Deeter Dome. I still adhere to the notion that trying to watch Skin-a-max with the screen constantly rolling through all that static was far more likely to cause the blindness than we what we were actually told would cause it by our parents. Still no hairy palms. I hate to refer to my mom and dad as liars, but I guess they did what they needed to do in those situations.

We lived in a small rural town, on the outskirts of a larger small rural town, that was a little lower than centrally located within the state. Whew! Did you get all that? Mississippi was always the green state on all the maps in school. It was sort of a taffy green, not a tree green. It was even a sherbety shade of lime in the front of the dictionary I used to look up my spelling words on Tuesday nights. Now, imagine that our green state stands four hands high, then Purvis is right at the top edge of your bottom hand. So we were half way in between the bottom half of the state.

In those days the cable company didn't find it necessary to run their lines down every street. (I recently found out that they still don't to this day.) They said it just didn't seem economically feasible. So for all of the 70s and the majority of the 80s (up through present day, I guess), those of us in the outskirts of Purvis had 3 channels. NBC had a local affiliate in Hattiesburg, about 20 minutes away. ABC was down on the coast, about an hour away. And there was ETV out of Jackson, which was about 2 ½ hours away, dead center between the palms of your 2^nd and 3^rd hands. (In case you hadn't noticed, distance is measured using time.)

The coast had a lot more people per capita than Hattiesburg. So naturally, ABC was a much stronger signal to those of us with rabbit ears. NBC was usually pretty clear. And ETV was pretty much perfect. The only problem with ETV was that once you'd graduated from The Electric Company, there really wasn't much point in watching it. There was Matinee at the Bijou on Sundays at noon, but even that got old.

It would be about 5 years before I'd ever hear Bruce Springsteen bellow out 57 Channels (and Nothin' On), but the thought had crossed my mind with the 3 we had.

We're talking pre-VCR era too here. You couldn't record anything to watch later or to watch again if you missed anything. If you didn't get it the first go round the odds were slim you'd ever see it again. Same at the movie theater. If you didn't go see it when it played that first time, you had to wait until it was edited for television. That could take years. And it always sucked because inevitably Charles Bronson would be about to blow some street thug's lights out in vigilante style and he'd say something like, "You're a friggin' meanie", but his lips would still be moving to the tune of expletives I'd not yet learned. (Which only proves my theory that any sports caster that can read the coaches lips with great accuracy must always have been Death Wish fans.)

It was basically impossible to see these movies again in their truest form. Reruns were sometimes possible with sitcoms, but there was no YouTube or Apple Store to check it out again later. So with theoretically only 2 useable channels, my childhood consisted mostly of family oriented, middle class entertainment. 70s and early 80s TV was great. Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli showed us what being cool was really like. It was very similar to the way Vincent Barbarino had done on Welcome Back Kotter. But with most episodes airing only once, and no internets, it was highly unlikely for us to ever know that the Sweathog's teacher was also an acclaimed poker player in real life. But we watched anyway.

CHiPs raised our respect for the law. Starsky and Hutch raised our respect for fast cars. And Good Times raised our respect for living a good life through tough times in the inner city. This was a topic I somehow thought I related to. Being a white kid in southern Mississippi and thinking Penny was cute wasn't exactly the most popular thing to advertise in 1979. It would take years before the locals looked at Janet Jackson the way I had as a child. I think I can actually say, with some degree of accuracy, that I've seen more episodes of That's My Mama than Lost. This is a fact that I am quite proud of.

In those days, you might watch a series for years and never realize a complete story arc had ever even happened. Here's a prime example: Did you know that Richie Cunningham had an older brother named Chuck? I didn't either until years later when there were stations devoted solely to all the episodes I had missed as a kid, before the age of the DVR. That was back when the channel was called Nickelodeon. Even when it went to Nick at Nite, it was still cool. Now it's more "Nick of the Nineties". But, hey, you can't have too much of The Nanny, now can you? I'm a firm believer that her outfits must have been made especially for her on the day of taping. My wife says that Fran Drescher's voice is annoying. Personally, I've never actually needed to hear it. No audio is necessary for me to enjoy that show. I don't look forward to the day The Suite Life of Zack and Cody will be on the retro channels.

Sometime in the mid to late 80s a whole new world of possibilities opened up. For years I'd seen commercials for the Laser Disc and the Beta Max, but apparently they were quite large and very expensive. $600-$1000 during the time period that Taxi and Hill Street Blues were still on the air was a month's pay for a lot of families. Needless to say, we didn't all have those monstrosities sitting atop our televison sets. But something happened in 1985 that changed all that. The Video Home System was introduced and more and more people were able to afford their own VHS. With VHS came video rental stores. From the video rental stores came the ability for all us non-cableized, small town folks to watch movies (without static or rolling pictures) from the comfort of our own Lay-Z-Boy. This was the beginning of a completely new trend for people like me. Interested, yet lazy.

I had been to the theater several times. Besides the normal kiddy Disney cartoon and live actions, I had seen Smokey and the Bandit in the theater. I watched Luke Skywalker inside Cloud City look Darth Vader right in the mask and cry "You are not my father" on the big screen before the movie world had ever even heard of an Ewok. And the people that wrote the tag lines were right, I "would believe that a man could fly" after watching Christopher Reeve don the cape, in full color, that I'd grown up seeing George Reeves (no relation) do the same with, in B&W.

Another thing is for sure. It didn't take much more than watching Top Gun close to 100 times on that giant (for its time) 19 inch, plastic, faux wood grain encased box that my parents had, to make me think I could fly an F16 fighter plane in a dogfight, wearing Ray Bans and listening to Otis Redding albums with the lovely and talented Kellie McGillis during her closet days.

And who wouldn't want to quit school and tour the finer establishments of your average bad neighborhoods after seeing Fast Eddie Felson show Vincent exactly how it was done 80 or 90 times? (Note to self: Download the soundtrack to The Color of Money for Warren Zevon's Werewolves of London by and Eric Clapton's It's In the Way That You Use It.)

Of course, Ferris Bueller's Day Off and WarGames made me immediately want to go out and buy a personal computer. If they were actually available at the time.

And… Animal House. Oh, yes, Animal House. That's the one movie that actually made me want to go to college. Albeit, for all the wrong reasons. (Later I'd find out that what I really wanted was a gray tshirt that simply said "COLLEGE.") I probably wore out the tape at exactly that scene where John Blutarsky (John Belushi to any bottom feeders that don't already know) is on the ladder and falls backward from the girls' dorm window. What a scene for a tweener! My imagination was working harder that it ever had squinting through the static. And, "Over? Did you say 'over'? Nothing is over until we decide it is! Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no!" That is comedic genius. "Forget it, he's rolling." Intellectual humor. What a concept. <Deep voice> "Duh you mine… if we dance… wif yo dates?!!" and when Blutarsky said "A zit! Get it?" I almost peed my pants. Not so much because it was that funny per se, but because I only wished I could do that in real life. That was the edge of intellectual humor in those days, but I don't think most people "got it." I'm a firm believer that even the most ardent viewer missed things in that movie that went virtually unnoticed until at least the twentieth viewing. Then one day they say to their wife "Honey? How'd I miss that before? I've seen this thing a million times." It's just how it is. Now, let's all sing "I gave my love a cherry / That had no stone / I gave my love a chicken / That had no bones / I gave my love a story / That had no end / I gave my...", well before you smash my guitar into the staircase, I'll get on with it.

I guess, even though I'd risked life and limb adjusting the manual antenna outside the house in the rain while dad yelled from inside "just a little bit more, oh no, wait, go back some, ok, right there", the fascination of watching on the little screen probably hadn't fully developed until the latter part of the 80s.

It was about this time that I'd seen Jerry Seinfeld appear on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. Soon he'd have his own show. It would be a show about nothing. A show that proves you can have a life centered around cereal and comic books. Did you ever realize that Superman appears or is referred to, sometimes very indirectly, in (rumor has it) all 180 episodes? (It's become a nerd-sport to guys like me to try and spot them all.) Then, yada, yada, yada, the show was a hit. Kramer slid in through the door. George's pretzels were making him thirsty. Elaine shouted "Get OUT!" And then there was… Newman.

"Hello… Newwwmannn." (grit teeth and turn, trying not to smile)

"Hello… Jerrrrry." (ditto)

It never crossed my mind that I didn't already know this guy. In my mind it was Flounder from day one. But it wasn't. I can remember thinking to myself that Kramer may make the show, but Flounder needed more stage time. Just sayin'. All the seriousness that he brought with the badge of the mailman made every scene a masterpiece.

I guess in the pre-interweb era where imdb.com is just a dream with no name, it could probably happen. Not nowadays. I knew that Kevin Bacon had made an early, if not his first, appearance in Animal House. He was noticeable in that role. But the fat guy that always gets screwed is such a believable part for a guy like me. I also remembered that a Donald Sutherland showed his ass, literally. And I probably knew that Flounder's real name was Stephen Furst. But apparently it didn't really matter in the annals of worthless knowledge that I chose to retain.

Today, seeing Stephen Furst and Wayne Knight I'm not real sure how I missed this for so long. But one thing I can tell you is that there were only 12 years between Animal House at the theater and Seinfeld taking over the air waves. Seinfeld reined supreme for almost 9 years. Fast forward just a little while and you'll realize Seinfeld's been out of syndication for 12 years, the same distance between Animal House and the first Seinfeld Chronicles (true fans know this). Where did all the time go? Maybe it flew by so quickly because there has not been a single day in almost 20 years that an episode of Seinfeld has not been on the air. It will definitely seem strange, if the day ever comes, that I start flipping channels at bedtime and Seinfeld is not taking up two slots back to back. If they'd had cable TV back in the 70s, they'd probably have said the same thing about I Love Lucy.

Think about this, aside from Lucille Ball basically giving birth to Little Ricky on live television in 1953, the Beatles invasion of 1964 and the "at the time" unrated swagger of a guy named Elvis in 1956, both on the Ed Sullivan Show, were the only times that would even come close to how many people, both viewers and households, that actually watched the last episode of Seinfeld air. That night at The Bombay Bicycle Club we knew we were, although indirectly, and even more so, inconsequentially, living a vital part of small screen history.

I still watch the old reruns. Seeing Seinfeld on television is far better for me than watching it on DVD. There's a certain "timing" that gets lost when there's no actual commercial break. Similar is true I'm sure of Animal House in the actual theater. I did not see Animal House in the theater, but I can tell you from experience that the fanboys of today that rent the Indiana Jones Trilogy and take advantage of a $3.00 2-liter Coke and a "free" pack of microwave popcorn at the counter because Netflix is taking a day longer than expected, will never know what it feels like to actually feel that big ass boulder rolling toward Harrison Ford in the movie theater. But if they think they can, maybe they should go home and watch X-Games on ESPN. Or even worse, X-Games on ESPN Classic.

Are they secretly promoting deadbeat suicide with this stuff. I wonder just how many poor bastards lie at home on the couch, staring at this crap because A) they have no sense of creativity from the watering down of modern television, and B) they're too lazy to get up and find the remote control for crying out loud. So he ends it. The note he leaves, if he leaves one at all, might refer to his Facebook account getting hacked or eHarmony not working out, but it doesn't really matter. I mean really, unless your little sister, or your brother-in-law, is the one actually skiing down the slope on the bright pink boogy-board from 1994, then who in the hell really cares? Is this what entertainment has become? Reruns of sports shows that nobody even really watched when they were on the first time? Give me some Newhart. It was pretty boring too and nothing ever really happened, but at least we could laugh at Larry, his brother Darryl and his other brother Darryl.

Kiss in Kindergarten

Kiss in Kindergarten
01.26.2010

I can never remember where I’m at in a book, what I’m supposed to get at the grocery store or how many minutes to microwave the rice. But I can vividly remember several things about my childhood that happened over 30 years ago. Why the 70s are easier to remember than my repetitious
yesterday is beyond me.
Probably my oldest memory is one where I’m sitting upright in Oma’s foyer, trying to put those shoes on my feet that all kids have to wear. Of course, I’m talking about the rock hard, white, leather ones that make you walk funny because they are so flat and don’t give at all, but eventually help you walk right because of these very same reasons. I don’t know how old I was, but I’m going to go with 2. I say this because it was before Oma had turned the foyer into an extra bedroom. So I’ll go with late 1975. It was right about the time I slipped out of her fridge and busted out (knocked out, rather) both of my front teeth. But that’s a story within itself.
I basically grew up on the floor board of a 1974 Ford pickup. I slept on a pillow when we travelled. And we travelled alot. My dad was a pipe fitter and worked shut-downs in various states across the southeast. We went everywhere. Travel trailer parks and instant grits at gas stations were all I knew until I was about school age. He settle into the place I’d spend my entire grade school career when I was 7. But the period before the age of 7 is quite fond to me.
I can remember several things from that very influential period in my life. Most of it, I learned from TV. Success meant pretty girls, a fast car and a hanging basket chair in your living room because Dan Tanner had all three. I thought that Leonard Nimoy was a bit odd, but that George Reeves was quite believable. A car chase involving a cop always ended in a spectacular way with rampa and an 18 wheeler. TV Dinners took forever to cook. Lunch boxes were made out of metal and made an awesome sound if you slid them on the floor just right. Captain Kangaroo was not a real captain. There was something odd and dainty about the relationship between Mr. Rogers and Mr. McFeely. Bozo was a real live person. Oh, and how words are very important. In music, that is.
Jump start to the late 70s. I know that I went half a year of kindergarten in Oklahoma and half a year in Arkansas. I know that my teacher first kindergarten teacher was a large black woman that I adored. She involved us a lot with Show and Tell and often she’d bring us cookies. Cookies made with lots of sugar. And then they were sprinkled with even more sugar. Homemade. None of that boxed shit. We drank gallons of Kool-Aid in those days. Going home at 3pm with a purple mustache and tongue was the norm.
I remember having a girlfriend that year named Laura. I’m not really sure if she knew that she was my girlfriend. But that wasn’t the point. I guess at age 6, the point was whether or not she could color very well. She could. She stayed completely in the lines and wasn’t afraid to use the brights and the darks altogether on the same page. But more importantly, she liked Kiss. Not to kiss, like smoochy smoochy. And not making up kiss, but makeup Kiss. Real Kiss, like Ace Frehley Kiss. Gene Simmons, Kiss. And Paul Stanley, KISS! Eh... whatever.
In 2010, I don't really care for them, but in 1978, I didn’t know what Kiss was. I knew that it was what my big-boobed, 14 year old, hottie of a babysitter used to listen to. (She wasn’t that big-boobed, but she did wear a bra. Which was a big deal in those days.) That was enough for me. A nicely padded A-cup, probably. And the music was loud. Very loud. And with fireworks! I had no earthly idea who or why anyone would want to listen to anything that noisy. I mean really, CCR was about as loud as I could enjoy without really knowing what the words were. “Gimme song a green rib uh.” And if The Eagles didn’t sing it, it probably didn't need to be sung. I was a very smart kid that grew up on southern rock and jukebox country. I could pick out Don Henley lyrics before I even knew what their names were. I recognized Glenn Frey’s voice way before he ever appeared on Miami Vice. Those two went together. They made sense. The words were smooth and the feelings were right. I still don’t know what colitas are. But, putting all that I already knew aside, that particular day, I wanted to know more about Kiss than anything else in the world.
I remember Laura was talking one day to the young, more impressionable 5 year olds about wanting to watch Kiss Meets the Phantom on television that night. I butted my way in and said that I did too. (That was my first lie.) I had no idea why she liked Kiss. I was relatively sure I did not. It was not my style at all. But I remembered that one day, one day, with Kiss music would come the A-cups. Even though these were more of the “training variety”, she said she liked the music so I really wanted to know more about it too. She said that it was gonna be great and that I should really like it. So I said that I would watch. So… that night I went home and told my mother that I wanted to watch Kiss Meets the Phantom.
Our family had a nice, for its day, 13 inch black and white portable Magnavox that we all squinted toward nightly. Ironically, Microvox would’ve been a more suited name. But it was our window to the world, far off lands, love, hate and the agony of defeat; which was what I got next. When I asked my question, my mother immediately gave me her response before even completing her next thought. She said “absolutely not.”
And that was the end of that. There was no negotiation.
Oh my God! I’d already told Laura that I would. Oh well. What do you do? Maybe she’ll forget.
She won’t forget.
Maybe I’ll just wing it.
I’d never be able to wing it.
Maybe she’ll be sick tomorrow and not come to school.
Funny how the mind of a six year old works, right? I’m unintentionally wishing harm to come to someone that in 20 years or so could very well be the mother of my children.
The next day she met me at my coloring table after first break and asked if I had watched it.
I said that I had.
She asked me my favorite part and I stuttered and stammered.
She smelled my lie. Yes she did. Maybe the hesitation in my voice gave it away.
(That was my second lie.)

It was already the second time I ever felt it necessary to lie to a woman (girl) I really cared about. We had a deep emotional bond. I had pushed her on the merry-go-round. Now I’m twice a liar and I’m only 6 years old.
The next thing she did was say that it was ok because her mother had not let her watch it either. There it was. The little life lesson that I’d try again and again for many years to come. That was the very first time a woman (girl) that I really cared about showed me it was ok that I had just lied to her. I got caught. I was cold busted, but it was ok. From that day on, try as I may, it would never ok again.
Laura was ideal. But somewhere along the way, I got sidetracked. Because even more ideal, was her little sister, Holly. I knew that it was doomed, before it ever began. Holly was too young. She was 5 and I was pushing 7. That would never work. What if Laura found out? They were sisters for Goodness sake. Pretty soon I’d be in 1st grade with the big kids doing addition and she’d still be in kindergarten coloring Snoopy. There’d be the occasional rift between her and her big sister because I’d come by on my Big Wheel and ask her to go play kickball. Jealousy would surely ensue. She might not even be able to make it emotionally. It could scar her until 2nd grade. I couldn’t do that to her or to Laura. I should probably just back off before she ever even noticed that I was in the world. So I did. That was a big life lesson there too. I had probably unconsciously heard Billy Preston’s famous quote through the vocals of Stephen Stills, Love the One Your With. But I’d like to think I was able to make my own right decision.
I guess for a guy to think that your girlfriend has a cute little sister has got to be a natural trait that we all have. I’ve talked to lots of guys that have experienced this. One thing rings true every time. No matter how cute they appear to be. Just remember, they are all nuts. Very nuts. Not quirky nuts either. Not cute and I can deal with it nuts. I mean, ape shit crazy nuts. The kind that you can’t shake away. Keep that in mind. Now, most guys never act on this, thank goodness. But I still find it necessary to make the point very clear. It’s not a conscious decision we make to go out and think about how cute her little sister is. It just happens. But it goes away. Usually right about the time we have to listen to her talk about something. And especially when she starts voicing us her opinion. It’s similar to the thoughts we’ve had about our babysitters. Not our kids babysitters. I mean our babysitters when we were the kids. I’m sure that everyone’s got their own variation of that same story. The one where the very first boob they ever groped belonged to their babysitter. Right? I don’t know if we ever really planned to get to second base with our babysitter in between reruns of Three’s Company and The Dukes of Hazzard, but that’s just how it worked out. By accident? Maybe? Speaking of which, a few important things about The Dukes of Hazzard that have stuck with me over the years. First, I still misspell the word “hazard” to this day. Second, I love cut off blue jean shorts. And third, I still dream about ramping over a cow pond in a 1969 Dodge Charger. But back to the more serious note, if you didn’t grope your babysitter, you should have. It’s by far the only time in life you could innocently get away with it.
Then there was my second kindergarten teacher. She was very attractive in a Mary Tyler Moore sort of way. I didn’t have another teacher this cute until Ms. Hardy in 2nd grade. She was a cross between Valerie Bertinelli (of the One Day at a Time era, not the weight loss era) and Jill Whelan (that’s the Love Boat Jill, not the sick girl in Airplane! Jill.) Now that I think about it, I’m not real sure how those two will morph together in your mind. Maybe you should just take my word for it. In 1978, she wore plaid skirts and white shirts with the little rufflies around the choker collar. Those were the days. The height of fashion. I really liked my teacher. Well, I liked looking at her. That’s for certain. We didn’t eat as many cookies here at this school. We did a lot more school work than coloring. And it felt as though I had traded in my coloring books for work books. Therefore it was harder to tell if I really liked a girl or not.
But I knew it would work itself out.
I’d spend the next 30 years or so trying to figure out other ways.
And it’s taken all this time to get right back to the same mindset that felt so good in those early years of my life. Ironically, life is remarkably similar to the life that I had at age 6.
I still don’t have the hanging basket chair in the living room, but I do still eat a lot of instant grits. I have a wonderful wife. She can appreciate The Eagles on a level that pleases me. I still love sugar cookies. Occasionally, I will allow myself to have a purple mustache with my daughter when we’re being silly. I love metal lunchboxes. Today, TV Dinners cook in about 5 minutes, which is nice. I still forget how long to cook the rice, though. I don’t really care that much for Star Trek, but I do enjoy those black and white Superman reruns. And I never really learned to appreciate the lyrics of Kiss as much as CCR. But that’s ok. I still like boobs. And I still like fast cars. And I’ve had my fair share of both. But most importantly, I’ve got a wife that colors very well.