Y'know, I guess that initially I didn't give much thought to the fact that if ANYONE ends up reading these entries that don't know me directly, they may be a little puzzled as to what the Hell "Son of Cheese" is in reference to...Were my parents made of brie or roquefort? Am I a member of a strange cult that still believes that the moon is made of green cheese and that once we eat the applesauce, we'll all ride the comet to salvation?..EAT THE APPLESAUCE, FOR LUNA'S SAKE!

No. It's not even as fanciful or, for that matter, as remotely interesting as that. It's the name of the hard drive on my computer at work. "Son of Cheese" is the name of my Mac G4.

I liked the scene at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where we are suddenly privy to the knowledge that the hero was named Henry all along and that Indiana had been the name of the family pet. We don't quite know why Henry Jr. decided to adopt the name of his pet contrary to keeping his birth name, but we can see that it IS unique and kinda manly. If I adopted the name of any pet I've had in my lifetime, I'd end up being called "Tippy" or "Rita." Neither of which will give me the appearance of a rugged adventurer. Being called "Son of cheese" has just happened through attrition.

When I started at the Gazette, I was working on a Power Mac 66mhz. for the time, it was pretty cool, I had been working on a very old Mac II at the screen printing house and, by comparison, this thing was a frickin' race car. eventually, the power supply went bad and I was gifted with a brand new Power Mac...something..It had a 250mhz processor I think. It was awesome, at the time. It was a bad mutha...I named it "John Shaft." I even rigged it to play the theme from shaft on startup. This led to it acquiring a worm virus. It kinda died. I had to start over, zeroing out the drive and reformatting.

Before we get too far, I should mention Ten Yun. Ted had been at the Gazette for a while when I got there and he was (still is, I'd imagine) a very capable designer who strived for bigger and better things. He was always the first to be called upon for special marketing projects, or design projects that needed a more "national" look. ted was also friendly and had a quick wit. everyone liked Ted.

Ted and I somehow got into a discussion about cheese one day. The details aren't important, I often will discuss, debate or argue about anything, regardless of whether or not I have any knowledge of the subject and sometimes, just to end the conversation, I'll go off on an inane tangent that seems completely absurd BECAUSE IT IS. By design. I remember telling Ted that Cheese was like life, the larger, more experienced cheese was old man or old woman cheese and it had to help the younger, less experienced cheese to maturity. Makes no sense, I know, it wasn't supposed to. Ted looked at me cockeyed and said "whetever, Old Man Cheese."

The name kinda stuck. He called me Old Man Cheese. Before it died, I named my power Mac 66 "Old Man cheese." I didn't think anymore about it for a long while.

After John Shaft met his untimely demise, while I was reformatting, I realized I had to come up with a name for my computer. I figured, if it really were the replacement for Old man Cheese, it could very well be the Son of Cheese. I bestowed this moniker on my new Mac upon reinstallation of system software and was off and running. I also had been set up with an email account that week, everyone in the building now had one. Oh how high-tech we had suddenly become!

y'know, the funny thing about email is that "name within a name" feature. Sure, you have your email address, I was dknight@gazette.com...but my display name was set to default to the name of my computer...You guessed it. "Son of Cheese." Every time I sent an email to ANYONE, it showed up in their in box, ready to read, sporting the name "Son of Cheese." Through no fault of my own, actually through my own ignorance, I came to be known as "Son of Cheese." also 'dickweed,' but that's another story.

When I left the gazette and came to the ad agency I'm at now, I was working on a 9500 named "Jerry." I gave it a worm so I could reformat and start over as Son of Cheese. Eventually we upgraded to G4 macs and I christened my new work station "Son of Cheese." The name "Son of Cheese" appears on the rip while my print jobs are ripping, Son of Cheese appears on the backup log and on the network. And soon, Son of Cheese will be the name of a shiny new G5...Son of Cheese will live on, even though I barely give any thought to it's origin these days. It just IS. It's accepted as a part of daily life here. And it's the first name that popped into my head when I decided to start a blog.

So there's that.

postscript: Son of Cheese was given a shiny new monitor yesterday. It's HUGE! we all have two monitors now. It's freakishly modern. I feel sooooo cool.

Labels: 'puter stuff, lame stories, me roots

Today is quite busy at work. I have a few new audio entries complete, but I'm still ruminating on them. One may be offensive. Who knows. I'm sure I'll post them soon enough. Either way, I figured I'd just post some quick cartoons for now.

this is my eff tepee. FTP...get it? oh, shut up.


this is something I did a while back and never really knew what to do with it. until now, that is.


yeah, I like drawing skeletons. He can't hold his liquor 'CAUSE HE HAS NO HANDS! tres funny, no? wait, whaddaya mean 'no?'


this is me stagnating. Sometimes I can't think of anything to draw. Yay me!

Labels: random drawings, spooky shit, stagnation

I know that everyone out there has done things that they wouldn't do again. Things that they're not proud of. Things that they won't admit to when their kids eventually ask "Didn't you ever do anything stupid?" I've done a lot of 'stupid' things in my lifetime, mostly born of boredom, or simply the fact that I don't think like most people. I've filled balloons with part water, part syrup and launched them at pedestrians. I filled an automatic Water-Uzi with water and blue food coloring and performed drive-by stainings...I've even gone out driving after heavy rains, looking for unsuspecting splash victims.

Before you start judging me, understand two things: I did these things as an adolescent and I've also had whatever shame or humiliation I inflicted returned to me tenfold. What you reap, so shall ye sow, right? Well, there's a reason that I'm a docile and obedient member of society, for the most part. I've learned my lesson...That doesn't mean that this story isn't worth telling. Stick with me here...

The worst of the bad habits that I displayed when I first had my driver's license, in my humble opinion, was the screaming. I would drive with my window down a lot, because no vehicle I owned had air conditioning. In the summer here in Colorado Springs, it's not overly humid, so a nice wind WILL cool you down. Either way, my window was almost always open. I would select 'victims' at random and just scream. Folks wouldn't see it coming. Sometimes, they didn't know where it came from. sometimes, they lost control of their faculties. I'm serious about this, once, I screamed at two girls on my way down Hallam Ave. They jumped quite high, one leapt over a fence and the other kind of crumbled into a heap, announcing that she had wet herself. I know. I'm sorry.

So there was the screaming. I had kind of outgrown this once I graduated high school (thank god) and had pretty much stopped the behavior. I moved up to Denver to attend a Tech School and, ultimately, attain my graphic art degree...My roommate, Jay, had been a 'friend' of mine in high school and was not the best of influences. He liked watching the results of the screaming. He's a sociopath who has never really been able to hold a job, a fact that he'll never admit to. Jay's a 'story teller.' He's always lying, either in a vain attempt at 'one-upmanship' or just to make his shitty, pathetic life sound just that much better...Either way, Jay got me into more trouble than he was worth. I usually only screamed at people to placate him, like throwing raw meat at an animal. Simple pleasures would keep this clown from finding other, more nefarious things to do like grabbing the steering wheel while I was driving. I'm serious.

I often contemplated killing him when we lived in Denver. I will say that this is something I have NEVER done, before or since, regarding ANY person. So there you go.

One time, he got me chased down by a large biker due to his habit of throwing trash out of the car. but that's a story for another time. Anyway, any time I had to myself while I lived in Denver, I had to cherish, seeing as he could really make my life hell. One fine afternoon, I was driving around Lakewood in my massive 1976 Oldsmobile, listening to a tape I had just purchased that had, among others, the Contours song "Do You Love Me." I was having a fine day and singing loudly to this tape and, yes, MY WINDOW WAS DOWN.

It had snowed that morning, but true to Colorado weather form, it was a sunny and warm afternoon. There was still a considerable amount of heavy, wet snow out and many folks were shoveling their sidewalks. There I was, as I described, tooling along through a residential area, in my hooptie, tape deck blasting oldies music and me singing like a freakin' banshee.

The beginning of the song "Do you love me," if you're not familiar with it, has a little spoken part. I was giving this part of the song just as much emphasis as I had the rest of the songs. I was having a great day by myself, As I said. I nailed the sentence "AND NOW I'M BACK! TO LET YOU KNOW...I CAN REALLY SHAKE 'EM DOWN..." just as I passed an old man shoveling his walk. The phrase "NOW I'M BACK" seemed to hit him like a baseball bat, he was in mid shovel. He let out a tortured grunty noise. He panicked. And he crapped his pants.

I am NOT lying here. And I didn't even mean to make it happen.

my vocal haymaker made him throw his shovel full of snow sharply back and upward, which was what caught my eye. He had contorted himself into a bit of an awkward position and, as the shovel lost the weight of it's load of snow, this position became even more perilous. Like I said before, he panicked. He saved himself from impacting the pavement, but in doing so, he apparently filled his pants with a hefty load of poopy.

"Yeah, right, you saw this while you were driving," you scoff. "I did" I would reply. I was only traveling 20 mph. and this unfolded on my side of the road. I saw it all, including his moment of realized shame. The moment when he grabbed his ass and waddled toward his house. The moment that I had never intended to see. A moment frozen in time. I'm sorry, old man. It was an accident, honestly.

Blame the Contours.

Labels: indignities, lame stories, pants poopin', tales of triumph

right after I started this stupid little blog, I (repeatedly) verbally assaulted my friend and co-worker Collin, imploring him to start his own little blog, which, because he caves like...well...like a very caved-in thing, he finally frickin' did...

Score one for peer pressure...

Anyhow, in only his second entry at that blog of his, Collin hits us with what was the result of a conversation we had at work earlier that day about Corpus Christi school, a Catholic institution that another co-worker is thinking about enrolling his kid in...I had told Collin that Corpus Christi, in Latin, means 'body of Christ.' Being the thoughtful caver that he is, Collin ruminated on that stray fact for a while and, ultimately, he decided that 'Corpus Crispy' would be a phenomenal name for a crematorium. Hence that second entry I mentioned earlier. I figured that a great new business like that deserved it's own poorly produced radio commercial. Being that I have entirely too much time on my hands, I produced two...

Collin wanted it to be an upbeat, almost hard sell ad, like a car ad. Being the giving soul that I am, obviously I obliged:


Now, also because I am nothing if not contrary (also: giving), I envisioned a less upbeat commercial for Corpus Crispy, so I did that sumbitch up as well. Since you've been good this year, I'm giving you two audio entries in one (scandalous) post!


so there's that. Enjoy!

Labels: all those funny voices, audio, collin crap, spoof commercials, spooky shit

I believe in ghosts. I've seen ghosts. I've shared homes with ghosts. I've felt ghosts pass me when I'm alone. I've had terrifying visions. I am not confined to a mental institution. Not at this time, anyway.

I often tell people, when they inquire as to why I'd believe in the existence of something so strange, that it's OK...I don't believe in anything silly like UFOs or vampires or such...Just real stuff...Like ghosts...I assume the reason that I believe ghosts exist is that I have seen what I believe to be ghosts. Did that make any sense? My dad claims to have seen a UFO. A large, cigar-shaped craft with a rough exterior that hovered and darted about like nothing he'd ever seen before. This would have been in the early 60s, maybe the late 50s while camping on Grand Mesa, which is on the western slope of Colorado. Maybe I have details wrong, hell, it's HIS story, not mine. Either way, he believes in UFOs because he's seen one. I haven't seen UFOs...But I've seen dead people.

My Mom forbade my sister and I to have a ouija board when we were young. I desperately wanted one, but she said 'no.' Her reasoning was that she had used a ouija board when she was younger and claims to have contacted the spirit of a person she had known who had died in a car accident. The experience scared her and she didn't want us to have similar, or even worse, experiences with the mystic Ouija. (weejee) My sister now owns multiple ouija boards. I, on the other hand, do not. I don't want to deliberately contact spirits anymore.

I used a ouija once. The proper way to use the ouija, I read, was to rest the board on the knees of two facing people, one male, one female. each should lightly touch the slidy thingy with their respective fingertips. Questions should be asked and energy from beyond should move the slidy-thingy (I apologize for not having the proper terminology at hand) to spell out answers. ANSWERS FROM BEYOND! Yeah. Anyway, the girl I was using the ouija with did not take the whole thing seriously and was goofing around, asking inane questions and moving the slider herself. In retrospect, she didn't take much of anything seriously...Hey, Ann...You're a jerk! Ha! There! I said it!

ok, I take it back. But, c'mon. At least try and wait for the spirits...

anyway, I don't need no stinking ouija to contact spirits. They seem to just come around. I saw a ghost in my room when I was 6 or 7. I was looking under my bed for something, I can't remember what...(my room was always a mess, so it could have been anything, even food.) Anyway, as I was under the bed, I looked out toward the door and saw someone walk by. Well, there was nowhere to go from where I saw the feet going where they were going, so I popped out and saw: nothing. no feet, no legs, nothing. Who says nothing can't be scary? Especially when it's nothing where something just was. This frightened me out of my skin. I ran like a little bat out of hell to the living room, jumped into my mother's lap and quivered.

When I was 8 or 9, we were living in a different house, much larger than the one I saw the ghost in the first time and also about 20 years newer...I was stoked! There weren't gonna be any ghosts here, I thought. For the most part, I liked that house. There was very little occasion to be scared and even the laundry room in the basement wasn't completely foreboding. The one exception during our stay in the house on Durasno Terrace came on a Saturday morning...I had risen from sleep as per normal, carrying my stuffed bunny (fuzzy was his name. Like Fuzzy Zoeller. Yeah, whatever) out towards the living room...My room was adjacent to my parents room upstairs. As you exited my room, to your right was a hallway leading toward the kitchen, to the left was the living room...I started, as I said, left. I stopped and glanced back right. From the direction of the kitchen, down the hall, past the bathroom and coming directly at me was a very large, very intricate wall of color and sound. The only way I could explain it to my Mom later was "flying colors! flying colors like a general or colonel would have!" it rushed at me AND THROUGH ME like a freight train, complete with wind and a wooshing sound. no form, no substance, just very bright and fast.

I stood motionless for a fraction of a second. I was uninjured, though completely surprised. I then leapt back toward the bed that I knew my Mom was in and attempted to burrow underneath her to escape whatever it was I had encountered. This, of course, startled her awake and I had to try and explain what happened. She was convinced that SOMETHING had happened...I was flushed and my heart was pounding...I later measured the distance I had to travel through the air, from a standing position, to get to my Mom's bed...14 feet. 14 frickin' feet at 8, maybe 9 years old, from a standing position with my back to the target. Adrenaline, baby.

I tried countless times to recreate the event...Maybe it was sunlight, maybe I had a headrush, maybe it was something other than what it seemed...Regardless of how many times I exited my room during my stay in that house, it never happened again. Ever. I have to chalk it up as a supernatural event. Not the only one I've had, but certainly the strangest. I have other ghost stories, which I'll share at a later date. If I ever see a UFO or sasquatch, I'll write about that, too.

the Mothman says hi, by the way.

Labels: 'de paranormal, lame stories, spooky shit

I am straying from the usual boring and self-deprecating stories to weigh in on a matter that started as local news and has since ballooned to be of national importance. The goings-on in Boulder regarding alleged sexual misconduct of CU football players has been talked about for nearly a month now and came to a head when the Head Coach, Gary Barnett, was recently placed on administrative leave pending an investigation for making comments that University President Elizabeth Hoffman deemed inappropriate and insensitive and for also showing support for a player that was under suspicion of rape based on information contained in a police report.

I should probably stop here and offer a disclaimer...The rant that will follow is based solely on my opinion. It contains maybe a few facts and will offend possibly one of the four people who regularly visit this blog. Bear with me...If you are offended, stop reading. If you want to sue me, follow these steps: open your butt, stick your head back in. OK, on with the fun!

Allegations of rape had been brought to the media's attention. These were rapes that allegedly were committed by CU football players, or recruits, off-campus at parties. There were some allegations that sex has been used as a recruiting tool and that escorts have been provided. If I remember right, however, the story of how the escorts weren't being used for recruiting or for the football team after all wasn't news, but oddly, the initial and now false allegation to the same still is...Either way, the media continues to spin and skew the information in such a way as to justify the suspension of Gary Barnett by a university president who seemingly holds some sort of grudge against the coach.

Now, I'm NOT going to assert that Barnett is a saint. In major college sports, if you dig into any program deep enough you'll find some wrongdoing. You can't tell me any different and have me believe you. It's the name of the game in division 1-A. The big time recruits are being wined and dined by boosters and university reps regardless of how illegal or inappropriate it is. In the long run, when the NCAA brings the smackdown to any school's program, regardless of the allegations, it's basically because the school didn't have boosters or payoffs in the proper order to avoid it. Sometimes, even when the investigations happen, certain schools can come away reasonably unscathed. Remember the Fab 5 basketball team investigation involving the University of Michigan a little while back? A school that should've received an NCAA death penalty ended up receiving only a slap on the wrist. Any time a school gets investigated, it sends a quick message to other schools and coaches to hide or shred what you got, or to get some boosters to put some money in the right pockets. Nobody wants to be in CU's shoes right now, do they?

That having been said, Gary Barnett was suspended for merely speaking the truth...Allow me to explain....

Katie Hnida is a female. She is also a publicity hound. I base THIS allegation on the fact that she cannot kick a ball with reasonable enough prowess to expect to be a part of a division 1-A college football program, or any other program for that matter. Katie Hnida is simply after some media attention. That's what her game has been from the start. Convenient how, when allegations of sexual misconduct at CU came to light, out pops Katie Hnida with her own sob story of how rough a time she had at CU, "boo hoo, the boys didn't want to play with me and oh, by the way Iwasrapedbyaplayer."

Did she tell this to the cops? No. She told Rick Reilly, Sports Illustrated writer, who lives in Denver. Little Katie's not interested in pressing charges, she says...She just wants some more media attention. She just wants her name in the papers and on the news because it seems that the media's kind of forgotten about her because, SURPRISE, she's not really that good a football player. Look. I can't say one way or another whether Katie Hnida was raped, but if someone crawls out of their fetid stinkhole at a very opportune time to offer up their sob story, but aren't interested in pressing charges IT'S PROBABLY BECAUSE IT DIDN'T HAPPEN! She's just piling on the bandwagon, hoping that her face will be the one that's shown on TV, not the face of the girl or girls that WERE ACTUALLY RAPED and have ACTUALLY PRESSED CHARGES or have ACTUALLY WON CIVIL LAWSUITS...No, God forbid the media would center attention on an actual victim when they can pay some attention to Katie Goddamn Hnida.

Gary Barnett was being interviewed about the latest allegations on Tuesday of this last week and offered up this description of Katie's time at CU:

"It was obvious Katie was not very good. She was awful," he said. "Katie was not only a girl, she was terrible. OK? There's no other way to say it."

This is all true. Katie Hnida lacks the ability to kick a football with enough accuracy and consistency to be a college football kicker. Barnett was simply responding to a reporter's inane questioning, not belittling the situation of rape victims. This, of course, is not how Elizabeth Hoffman saw it, probably because she was too busy posturing and trying to look important and hoping nobody would notice the fact that she's completely and utterly ignorant about how the justice system in America works...

Hoffman said that Barnett's comments about Hnida's kicking ability were "extremely inappropriate and insensitive" and that those remarks were the main reason Barnett was put on administrative leave, Hoffman said.

"Rape is a horrific allegation and it should be taken seriously," she said.

Also, in was intimated that he was suspended, in part, for his comments in a police report that showed support for a player who was under suspicion of rape. UNDER SUSPICION of rape. LET ME REITERATE: UNDER SUSPICION.

So, we should try and get this straight. Hoffman suspends Barnett because he didn't lie about someone's athletic ability and he stood behind one of his players, trusting that this player had character, despite the fact that he was UNDER SUSPICION of rape.

Are we not all INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY in a court of law? When the HELL did an ALLEGATION of rape instantly become a damning conviction? Where does it say "All suspects are innocent until proven guilty UNLESS THEY'RE ACCUSED OF RAPE whereby said suspect is immediately a total pariah and any support of this person shall be regarded as guilt by association?" It seems that Elizabeth Hoffman subscribes to the latter definition of the law, not the former.

ESPN's Linda Cohn smugly pointed out on Thursday morning that coaches who are placed on administrative leave are most often fired. In fact, that morning's broadcast of ESPNs SportsCenter didn't waste much time in firing Barnett. They talked about his having been removed and dismissed, never to return. Whether or not he had a hand in any wrongdoing remains to be seen and I am disgusted (as I am all too often) at the attitude of media types who love to act holier-than-thou and damn individuals based on flimsy allegations prior to there having been any investigations.

You know, if the allegations turn out to be untrue, that's not a news story. It won't be reported with the same fervor as the allegations or Barnett's dismissal. It's horrific to see how the media can potentially ruin the career of an individual with shoddy reporting and impromptu posturing and editorializing.

In summary, I should say to Katie Hnida: "give it up. You're wasting New Mexico's time, just like you wasted CU's and you're taking up space that should be allotted to someone who deserves to be there.

to Elizabeth Hoffman: Perhaps you should stroll down to the law department at CU, if there is one, and reacquaint yourself with the codices of the American Justice System before you make such a hasty and obviously emotionally-driven fool of yourself

and finally, to Rick Reilly: Dude, open your eyes...Not every sob story that comes straight to you is worth printing in your crappy little back-page column.

Oh yeah. Hey, Gary Barnett: If you ARE using sex as a recruiting tool, it's not working. Could you please pick up some guys that'll AT LEAST produce a win over CSU? I hate those damn Rams...

That's all. See you all on Monday.

Labels: misguided rantings, sports

There comes a time in life when we learn not to take everything at face value. Eventually we all stop believing in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny, knowing that we'd been fed a lie all along. A wonderful, fanciful lie, but a lie nonetheless. There comes a point in life when you realize that your parents are not only human, but that they probably led a life a lot like yours while they were growing up. You realize that you're not the only one who's had to go to school, been made fun of or had your bike stolen.

Wait a minute...I never had my bike stolen. Did I even HAVE a bike? shit...

Either way, you'll have many moments of epiphany in your lifetime. Some great, some small. Some that hit you like a ton of bricks and some that hit you while you have egg on your face. Literally. Allow me to explain...

We weren't a poverty-stricken family, but we were far from wealthy. We didn't have things lying around the house like computers or camcorders. My sister and I had to beg and plead for a computer for Christmas one year. It was the ColecoVision Adam. More of a glorified game console than an actual computer, but it was everything we had seen in our dreams and more. We did get it. It was ok. But we never got a camcorder.

I still don't have a camcorder. I have a digital camera, but no camcorder. I guess if I had a camcorder, I'd have to face up to the sad reality that I have nothing to tape with the camcorder. Cest la vie. Anyway, some of my best childhood memories still linger from 2 magical weekends when I was about 12 or 13. As a family, we rented a camcorder.

Before the big video chains hit town, we rented our videos at "National Video" which was owned by a friend of my Dad's. I experienced a lot during the early days of video rental. I learned how to hook a rental VCR up to our ancient TV...I learned some new words from films like "Cat Ballou" and Mel Brooks' "To Be Or Not To Be..." And I learned that my very own video franchise was just a phone call away.

They asked me for money when I called. Just sign me up, I'll send the money once I make it! Don't you guys understand how this works? anyway...

One thing that had often caught my eye was a camcorder that was always in the store. Upon inquiry, I was told that, for the paltry sum of $19.99, anyone could rent the camcorder for an entire weekend. An entire weekend! With a camcorder! My little brain immediately overflowed with ideas and schemes for all of the wonderful things that we could record! My sister, too was on board with the idea, so we pitched it to Mom.

As I said before, we were not wealthy. $19.99 may has well have been a million dollars to me and it seemed to be a stumbling block for Mom as well. Someday, maybe, we could rent that camcorder. But not that day.

Mom was good at getting around to letting us have what we wanted. We did eventually rent the camcorder for a weekend. My sister and I filmed everything we could think of, including some very basic stop-action animation, a couple of uber-lame music videos, a very short episode of my own cooking show, some obligatory tapings of hamster antics, a couple of spoof commercials and probably lots more. On Sunday, as our weekend was winding down, it was apparent that my Mom was yearning to get her time in the limelight as well.

It was sometime in March, I can't remember when exactly. It was a little cool outside and it was nearly evening. My Mom decided she had to act fast. She said that she had a special idea for the camera and that we'd have to go outside. My sister Heather was to be her partner for this special idea and I was to be the cameraman.

I was relegated to cameraman!? What the Hell, lady!? I was a star!

I should interject at this point that I'm the second of two children. Do some research! Parents are notoriously soft on second children. I knew that if I voiced displeasure about the impending arrangement, I could surely have my way, so that's just what I did. I won. I was to be my Mom's very special partner for her very special show.

What a dipshit move that turned out to be.

We all went out to the backyard and set up by the far fence. The camera was rolling, Mom was interviewing me..."What season is it, Derek?" "Spring!" I squeaked, not yet having developed an adult voice. "That's right, and what holiday is coming up?" my Mother inquired. "Easter?" I replied. "That's right, Easter. And what do you search for on Easter?" she asked. "Eggs!" I squeaked!

"THAT'S RIGHT! EGGS!"

With that exclamation, my Mother smashed a raw egg on my forehead and ran, laughing toward the house. THAT had been her entire plan. My sister diligently kept the camera trained on me to capture my reaction. I had just been served up a giant shit-sandwich full of indignation. I had also, unwittingly, saved my sister from the horror that I was experiencing at that moment. As I stood in my backyard with egg, literally, on my face, I realized that sometimes things aren't what they seem and sometimes, my Mother isn't looking out for my best interests. She's human. She laughs at the misery of others just as much as I do.

I wasn't my Mother's first choice to visit searing emotional pain and humiliation upon. She had planned all along to smite her first-born. My dumb ass had changed the course of history. I guess I can take a small bit of comfort in knowing that I may be the favorite after all. The way I see it, if someone offers you the role of "partner" or "Cameraperson," choose the latter.

After all, what can possibly happen BEHIND the camera?

Labels: indignities, lame stories, me roots, stuff mom's done

Just another reason that I may end up in Hell...
Nothing too in-depth today, just a spoof spot I did a while back for "Rosary Ford." In it, I'm playing the role of Bishop O'Halloran and Father Mike is played by (little) Joel, who used to be a freelancer here at the agency but who is now a youth pastor. I'm not kidding, he's like...ACTUALLY a man of God. Before we get started, as a sidenote, If you're Catholic, and this offends you, I'm not sorry. Now, if it offends you and you're NOT Catholic, you don't have a leg to stand on. You're just lookin' for a fight...Bully...

Anyhow, here it is:



so there's that. Enjoy!

Labels: all those funny voices, audio, religion, spoof commercials

I'm sure that, at some point in your life, you've shot a rubberband at someone or something. You've possibly even manufactured or purchased a device to shoot rubberbands fast and hard and without potential injury to your fingertips. You may have even been involved in a full-scale rubberband battle. You probably know what kind of stinging death a well-placed rubberband can bring. I myself am quite familiar with the pain. I am a veteran of one of the most protracted rubberband wars in recorded history.

For roughly 3 years of my life, I worked at the Gazette, which is the major newspaper here in town...There's also a little weekly rag, that thinks it's a newspaper...They're so cute when they're so little...But anyway, working at the Gazette was a great opportunity for me, considering I had been just getting by working at a screen printing house and at a couple radio stations...The gazette was a real job with benefits and good pay. And I was going to be doing what I enjoyed...Advertising design.

I'll probably tell more gazette-related stories at another point in time, but this story is specifically about rubberbands. Around me, anything can be a projectile or a weapon. I have the attention span of a gnat and enjoy distracting and annoying my coworkers. It's not constant, but the potential is always there. Either way, this is how the great rubberband war began.

I would usually shoot rubberbands at folks who were just walking by, or who were feverishly working away. One of my main targets for rubberbands was Collin, mostly because he would fight back. Collin and I have worked together now for 7 years. He worked his way up to the Advertising Art Department at the gazette from the composing room. I eventually became his supervisor before I departed for the ad agency I currently work for and I was able to convince my new supervisor that she should hire Collin. It took a couple tries, but Collin was liberated from the crushing black death-abyss that was the Gazette.

Anyway, Collin and I would shoot rubberbands. We would also play beach ball hockey, beach ball volleyball, duck the bagel, avoid the crushed soda can or whatever game kept us from going insane working the night shift. I believe in a good balance of hard work and fun breaks. Without fun breaks, you'd go nuts at work, especially doing what we do. All the other nightshifters joined in the fun and nobody seemed disdainful, with the exception of jeannine who once tore apart a football with her bare hamhocks because it entered her 'atmosphere' and LET ME TELL YOU she had a lot of atmosphere.

Over time, the rubberband retribution came to be more like a sniper attack or a black ops mission than a friendly game. Revenge would come from nowhere, when you least expected it. eyes were not off limits. Blind-Side assaults happened with increasing frequency and point blank attacks were now commonplace. It was about this time that I decided the rubberbands from the supply closet just weren't cutting the mustard. I purchased a nice, large bag containing over 1,000 very heavy-duty rubberbands. I was loaded for bear. or whatever.

At one point, collin hit me in my left eye as I was getting up from my desk...As I was holding my eye, writhing in obvious pain, he hit my unattended (right) eye. I've never heard someone laugh so sadistically. I responded to this assault by walking straight to his desk a half-hour later, placing the rubberband on his forehead, drawing it back and letting it go. The point-blankest of point-blank shots. It left a welt on his forehead for hours. A welt I fondly referred to as 'the mark of the beast.'

And this is basically how events unfolded for a number of weeks. Every moment held the potential for attack. One evening, Collin was helping out a coworker with a project, his back facing me. I swiveled around in my chair, grabbed a thick rubberband, drew it back, sighted it and everything went black.

I felt a searing pain in my left eye when I came to. I was lying on the floor, my swivel chair about 5 feet away. I could barely see and my head was throbbing. The fat-ass rubberband that was meant for Collin broke before I could fire. It snapped back and hit me square in my left eye, knocking me out of my chair and causing me to momentarily lose consciousness.

For anyone who's read this far and is now thinking to themselves "What a wuss," let me explain. I was once hit in the head with a point-blank slapshot while playing hockey. It cut me to the bone, requiring 36 stitches. I didn't lose consciousness, nor did that knock me over. This did. This was awful. This was worse than being hit with a brick. If you don't believe me, try it for yourself. The surprise factor alone would've been enough to floor me, let alone the crushing impact.

As I struggled to my feet, work stopped in our department. Everyone stared at me like I were some freakish side show act. They stared the kind of stare that's a little bit concern, but mostly "I told you so, you little asshole...you finally got what you deserved." At least the cleaning crew would be happy. There would be no more rubberbands to clean up. A little blood and some human eye-tissue,yes but surely no more rubberbands. There would have to be a truce, much like in World War II, when the Japanese saw the devastation that could be visited upon them. I had to concede after experiencing the worst that a rubberband could dish out. That rubberband was my Hiroshima.

That rubberband hurt like a son of a bitch.

Labels: collin crap, lame stories, office supply aggression

Strangely, one of my favorite activities when I was younger was ordering from the Sears Catalog. There was the obvious thrill of getting something new, anything new. It was fun to browse through the catalog, looking at all the pictures and thinking how cool it would be to have all the things that one could possibly desire...My Dad got his pants through the Sears catalog, so every few months, there would be a trek to the Sears location for the activity that I looked forward to the most...

Picking up a catalog order.

The Sears location at Southgate is an older, stand-alone Sears. A department store that was built before shopping malls were king, when the department store was the DESTINATION, not the anchor. Things have changed a lot from when I was younger, this Sears has since become an anchor of a larger shopping area with a Home Depot, an On The Border, a Bed Bath and Beyond and other places. But back when I was growing up, this Sears stood alone...This Sears had a little coffee shop inside. This Sears had a catalog pickup department.

I liked the catalog pickup department.

It's now the automotive service area. Back then, it was a place where you took your catalog order confirmation to a desk and the desk folk turned you loose back in the catalog order warehouse TO PICK UP YOUR OWN STUFF! IT WAS SO COOL! Wandering through the maze of shelving, wondering what treasure awaited you when you finally found your designated slot. One time, there was extra stuff in our slot that we didn't order. It was awesome stuff that my sister and I had both wanted! It was a very happy mistake! My Mom told us both that it wasn't ours, we'd have to send it back, BUT IF WE WERE VERY GOOD we could keep it.

This, of course, was all BS...It WAS ours, a special gift at an unexpected, totally random time of year. My Mom loved playing little psychological games with my sister and I. We did behave and I did get to keep my new Popeye pajamas. Oh, Hell yeah.

in 1983, however, a not-so-happy catalog order mistake befell me. I will have to admit, in the course of telling this story, that I really liked the Smurfs. I had Smurf figures, Smurf toys, a Smurf record and even saw the Smurf movie, even though it was totally confusing because, while the TV show had been nicely translated from French, the movie wasn't so much. These Smurfs had accents. It was weird. Either way, I dug the Smurfs...

My Mom had let me order a couple of things from the catalog...One of the items I chose was a simple white sweatshirt with a Smurf on the front. The Smurf was singing. In the catalog photo, this was it. Smurf singing. White shirt. This was it. I was gonna look so cool wearing THIS to school. YEAH!

Time passed. The catalog order came in, we went to Sears, picked it up, we all got our individual stuff and unpacked it, laid it out and stared at our bounty. Then something caught my eye. Something horrifying. Something NOT pictured in the catalog illustration.

Before I explain, I should also admit that I was a total FREAK about Popeye when I was a kid. I drew Popeye, I tried to talk like Popeye (which in retrospect probably sounded like a very tortured squeak) and I wanted to wear Popeye clothes. My mom found me a shirt once, probably at Anthony's (another store, now long gone), that was a perfect replica of Popeye's shirt, replete with red collar and yellow buttons. I was overjoyed and wore the hell out of it. One day, I happened to glance at the tag. The brand name of this shirt was "Growing Girl." I shit you not. I had been wearing a girl's shirt all along. I'd been totally snookered. It just wasn't as cool after I found this out. But back to the smurf shirt...The smurf shirt eclipsed the popeye shirt incident tenfold...

The sweatshirt was indeed white. It had long sleeves, like I had expected. It had a full color smurf on the front, singing. It was the right size and looked like it would fit very nicely. However, in place of the little music note that was coming from the Smurf in the catalog illustration, there was the phrase "Love me Tender" in script across the whole chest of the shirt. Love me fucking tender. It may as well have said "go easy on me, boys...It's my first time." I was instantly and completely terrified. I couldn't wear this to school! This was a girls' shirt! I was a boy! It was bad enough that my parents never cut my hair and all of the restaurant servers and department store employees in town THOUGHT I was a girl EVERYTIME I APPEARED IN PUBLIC, now I had TO DRESS IN GIRLS' CLOTHING! GODDAMMIT!

I started to feel sick.

I had a great quandary on my hands. (I was 8...maybe 9...this, to me, was the biggest problem I would EVER have to tackle.) What do I do? I couldn't NOT wear it...Mom had paid for it...I didn't think I could send it back, I had taken it home and unwrapped it...I couldn't wear it to school, I'd look like a moron. I was crushed. As time passed, it became clear that I'd have to at least wear this stupid shirt once. And wear it I did. I mustered up all the courage I could and put that shirt on come Monday. I went to school. I kept my jacket zipped all the way up on the playground...I hunched very very far over my desk...I covered my whole chest with my arm during the pledge of allegiance...I wore my coat to lunch and offered no explanation. I wore the fucking shirt to school.

And I survived.

Labels: indignities, lame stories, me roots

My Mom tends to panic. She's a panicker. Not a worrier in the traditional sense, or a victim of 'panic-attacks.' She simply seems to receive an overload of adrenaline when quick action is demanded. Once, while playing the game 'catch phrase,' in an attempt to get her partner to say the phrase 'wet t-shirt contest,' as time ran down, she grabbed at her chest-area and screamed 'POUR WATER ON THESE! POUR WATER ON THESE!' while shaking. I laughed 'til I cried. and that's just a microcausm...

My Mom is a very nice person. She's pleasant and small and people like her. Appearancewise, she's Velma from Scooby Doo. (the cartoon, not the lame live-action one.) She is the manager of a discount department store. She's a hard worker. Even though she's only 5'2", she once battled a very large man trying to steal a shop-vac from her store. Days like that, I wish I could've been available to floor people who would think of trying to steal from my Mom...Of course, if I did things like that, I'd probably end up in jail, so there's a give and take.

Anyway, in addition to her pleasant disposition, she's not intentionally mean to anyone. Ever. Especially when she wants to be. What I mean by this, is when it's time to FLIP THAT BIRD or to exact revenge on someone for whatever wretched indignity they've committed, she freezes up. She can't do it. She mixes things up. She flips the wrong finger.

This is why the thumbs up sign in my family now means "way to go, asshole."

I was greeted by this about 2 weeks ago. My wife and I had gone over to my parents house to have game night. I enjoy game night. We play games. My Dad was working, which is just as well, he only plays one game. The rest are 'fag games' according to him. Anyway, my sister arrived and we were set to play some games. My Mom smiled, extended her arm towards me, raised her thumb and said...

"Way to go, asshole."

I was stunned. I just stared. My wife stared. She burst into laughter and so did my sister. Seems that earlier that day, with my sister riding with her, someone cut my mom off on Academy Blvd. In her immediate anger, she showed him the most angry of all approval signs, the thumbs up, while shouting the word 'asshole.' Mr. Mystery driver must have felt pretty good, having received absolute approval through his rear-view mirror for such an egregious act. On the other hand, my Mom couldn't contain her frustration. Eventually she laughed about it, as did my sister. I laughed about it too, once I realized that I WASN'T the asshole. At least not THIS time.

Another quick mom story...We often go to visit my Aunt and Uncle and their kids. Often, we all ride together and often, we take a back road. State hwy 83. it's a 2-lane road that winds though Black Forest and Franktown and is very very dark at night. People tend to ride with their hi-beams (heh heh...hi-beams) constantly, and most will flip their hi-beams at oncoming drivers out of habit, regardless of what beams are being displayed. One (fateful) night, my Mom was driving us all back home on 83. The first 3 or 4 cars that passed her gave her the brights...She was quite shocked that folks would attack her in this manner, especially since her brights were not on.

My Mom had recently acquired a new Saturn L200. New headlights always look bright, this was a fact that became apparent to me one summer when we rented a minvan to go on vacation. We had the brights flipped at us incessantly. My thinking was that "if those effers think the normal lights is bright, wait 'til they get hit with the real brights! yeehaa!" This same thought apparently entered my Mom's mind about the time that damn 4th car got her...

She was coiled like a cobra, ready to strike...Her hand set, twitching on the switch, waiting for the next car to flip their brights at her...Each oncoming car that approached was an opportunity for sweet revenge...Car after car passed, with my Mom's brights-hand cocked and loaded, without flipping their hi-beams. not one. Everyone from that point on followed the rules of the road, dimming their hi-beams and not flashing them or re-activating them until they were well past us. Seemingly defeated, my Mom eventually relaxed back into a normal driving pose.

As soon as she did, someone brighted her.

If you had been a casual observer at this point, it probably looked like my Mom's car's electrical system was malfunctioning. Her brights went on and off, the wipers went on and off, the car swerved. Caught off guard, Mom hit every switch she could, even though it was too late to smite the offensive vehicle. we all laughed, with the exception of Mom. I'm not sure she's over that incident, even today.

Labels: lame stories, stuff mom's done

Earlier, I wrote about my experience in the cult of scouting. Obviously I exaggerate, but I would be remiss if I did not amend my earlier assertion that meetings, day camps and friggin' jubilee was all there was. How quickly I forget...There was also:

THE PINEWOOD DERBY.

The Pinewood Derby is an annual race pitting scout against scout. It's an aptly named race, since you were (still are, probably) given a kit that contained 2 thin axles, 4 lame-ass wheels and a chunk of pine. You were to carve your miniature machine from this hunk of wood, attach the axles and wheels and bring it to the derby where it would be placed, in various heats, at the top of a specially made sloped track and let go. If your hunk of pine made it down first, you won. If you continued to win, you advanced and if you won in the final heat, obviously you were the man. My quest to be 'the man' began just like every other Scout. I received my piece of tree.

I must explain briefly that I am not, nor have I ever been any sort of craftsperson. True, I am paid to be an artist, but this does not extend to every lousy corner of craftdom. Also, I lack patience. Combine all this with the fact that I was 9 years old (which seems to be a theme) and my project would seem doomed from it's inception.

my block of wood, I figured, would be patterned after the old race cars you see in black and white newsreel footage. An admirable goal for someone who has the carving skill of an amputee...After hacking and whacking at this piece of pine for a while, I had a ragged, double-humped chunk of shit that loosely resembled a car, in it's most basic sense, and only if it had been involved in a horrible accident. It could have been utilized as a sort of pinewood derby 'scared straight' example. Either way, I had made my bed, it was time to lie in it. I figured if I gave it a classy paint job, nobody would be too quick to notice the design flaws...

At my disposal were a few cans of very old Krylon®. One happened to be metallic silver. I figured that metallic silver could make anything look awesome, so I went at it. When I was done, I had a Frankenstein's monster of a car. A ragged, misshapen log sporting a paint job that resembled a special-ed craft project. Things clearly weren't unfolding as they had in my dreams...

The race happened on a weekend, probably a Saturday, at the Community Center. The Community Center housed (still houses, actually) the Library, The Swimming Pool and various other rooms that seemed to serve no purpose other than to host events like the Pinewood Derby...I remember attending pre-school in one of those rooms. They locked up my crayons...I cried. But that's another story for another time...

Anyway, the race...I brought my monstrosity along, ready to compete for whatever it was the 'special' cars could compete in. Maybe there'd be a different division for the less crafty kids...Either way, I was resigned to my fate and ready to let my block of shit lumber down the track...

The race was run in various heats, with the winners of each heat racing against one another until all were eliminated leaving a grand champion. All the area scouts that could attend were there with shiny, aerodynamic cars sporting even and classy paint jobs, some with numbers and decals and some *gasp* with weights added to the front of the wood for extra momentum...I was doomed. nonetheless, I approched the track when my name was called and placed my car in it's slot. I could hear stifled laughter, and I was ok with that...after all, my car DID appear as if it had been stuck in the garbage disposal the night before...As the cars were let go, the lighter, angled cars immediately fell behind...My chunky block of crap, however, continued down at a nice pace and won the heat.

I had actually won a race. The shit-log had beaten 5 other cars. What the hell...

The race lasted a total of 5 hours. In that 5 hours, the ugliest, most fucked-up car ever carved out of pine beat every other car in the contest. Cars that had been sanded smooth, cars that had been weighted, cars that had been built by NASA engineers and even one car that had a tiny ethyl engine and a mouse with goggles and a helmet as its navigator.

Ok, maybe not the last two.

But I had won. I had kicked ass, as a matter of fact. I truly was 'the man.' or 'the boy.' anyway, I received a gold medal as grand champion of the Pinewood Derby for my little pocket of the world in 1983. A medal that I'm sure I still have to this day.

I replicated my "design" for the '84 derby. I came in 4th. I think the track that year was defective. It had to be. My design was proven. My design was a winner.

Or maybe I was just damn lucky.

Labels: lame stories, me roots, tales of triumph

My family has never been a 'gun' family. Not for lack of trying, mind you...Fate just always seems to intervene. My father had a very nice ruger when I was younger...He had taken it apart to clean it, my Mom found it, pronounced it 'broken in pieces' and discarded it. After that, my dad stopped trying. My dad once told me he was going to take me hunting. I woke up ill that day. He never took me hunting, I've never been hunting. I'm not a hunter. Sad, I know. Actaully, I'm not sure my Dad's ever been hunting either...

Anyway, both my Mom's side and my Dad's side are not real hunters. Or shooters. My uncle Mickey, who married into the family, has a hairy back, a surly disposition, a genius IQ (so he says) and a large gun collection. He's the exception to the rule. I don't mind guns, I like guns. I respect guns. I would like to own a gun. My wife says no. Again, sad. I know. Anyway, my family doesn't own too many guns. This will come into play later.

My Mom's parents (my grandparents, duh) live in Grand Junction, which is on the western slope of Colorado. My grandfather served in the Navy in WWII and spent the rest of his life as a carpenter. He built lots of things, including his own house out in what WAS the middle of nowhere back when it was built. Large plots of farmland where folks could raise up a family, a couple cows, 2 or 3 crops and all the other trappings of the american dream. As it pertained to those with land. Anyway, neighbors slowly trickled in over the years.

The folks across the street from my Grandparents raise animals for slaughter and other forms of amusement. They are never without chickens, some cows, goats...The goats...The goats have a nasty disposition. Also, they can defeat whatever crude means of restraint their captors are using to hold them onto their side of the road. The goats routinely wander across the road to chew on whatever they can. Some years ago, this included a very nice garden that my Grandfather had planted. He complained loudly to his neighbors about the goats to no avail. Finally, they conceded that if the goats wandered into his yard again, he was free to shoot them. The goats. Shoot the goats. No shooting the neighbors. not even a little.

See, their reasoning was "we're just going to slaughter them anyway, they've about reached slaughterin' age, so if he shoots them, saves a step for us." Grandpa's reasoning was much more basic. "Kill the goats."

Remember what I typed earlier? Grandpa doesn't own a gun. Not a single one. I'm not convinced that he ever carried a gun outside of his service to our country. Either way, this fact would prevent his shooting of any goats. Luckily, he had a backup plan. He owned a shovel.

The next day, sure as shit (which is an expression I've been longing to use) the goats wandered back his way. My Grandfather immediately captured the large male goat and tied it to a tree. He then wandered off to complete some chores, seemingly so the goat could contemplate it's fate. The only thing the goat did, however, was to free itself by chewing through the rope. Well played, mr. goat. Well played.

The next day, the goats, seemingly emboldened by the previous day's escape, came across the road and into my Grandfather's garden. Grampy wasted no time that day, grabbing the male and tying it to the same tree as the previous day. He then went directly to grab his shovel. Here is an account of what happened next, which I got from my then 76 year old grandfather...

"I looked the goat in his eye and it looked back at me...I brought up the shovel and came down on his head, square and hard. So hard, that I broke my shovel. Damn goat broke my shovel! And he didn't die straight away, either...Just lay there on the ground, lookin' up at me, moving it's hooves and going 'eee, eee, eee'...Well, I had to finish the job, so I grabbed the handle and proceeded to bludgeon this goat the rest of the way. Part way through, I saw my neighbor drive up...I dragged the goat behind the garage, so they couldn't see, and finished the job. I buried the goat there when I was done."

"You buried it?" I asked.

"Behind the Garage." he replied.

"Don't you figure they would've liked to use the carcass? After all, I figure that's why they said you could shoot it." I inquired.

"Never thought of that." he said. "Humph. Well, it's done now. Maybe they figured it just up and ran away."

On certain nights, when the moon is full, you can see the lonely spectre of a goat, bleating his final death-bleats in the pale moonlight behind my Grandparents' garage. Ok, maybe not, but it makes for a fun story. The goat did die, it is buried there and my Grandfather still doesn't own a gun. I can't rightly say that I've seen 'ghost goat', but I'm not ruling anything out just yet.

Labels: goat killin', grandpa, lame stories, me roots

I was a Cub Scout. When I was younger, I was inducted into the weird-ass cult that was 'scouting.' Mostly, I wanted to become a scout because, Hell, all the kids were doin' it and because it meant I got to go downtown to 'Hibbard's' which was a cool-ass department store. And by cool-ass I mean old school. By old school, I mean like various floor and a real old cage elevator. I loved that elevator. If I had to join a cult to have my Mom take me to Hibbards, so be it. Sign me up.

So anyway, I was a Cub Scout. Curiously, this didn't mean I went scouting for bear cubs, or anything for that matter. It mostly meant that I had a book to read, meetings to attend and various menial chores to complete, much like a scavenger hunt, but far less enjoyable.

I tried to compete in the big Games® Magazine Scavenger Hunt in 1983. I was 9. It didn't work out. I'm still a little bitter.

Anyway, Scouting. I did rise quickly through the proverbial ranks, attaining my Wolf, Bobcat and Bear badges, (replete with numerous arrowheads) in what I considered record time. I was also a member of Den 1, Pack 1. Seriously. Not the first den or pack in the country, or in the world, just perhaps in my small pocket of the world. It was easy to remember and that's a good thing. Remind me to tell you the story of my high school JV football team...It's funny.

Sorry, got off track for a second. For those of you who were Cub Scouts, you know that mostly, there's just meetings, various sporadic charity events, the occasional away camp, which lasts for no more than 2 days and JUBILEE! That's right. I said Jubilee.

Jubilee, if my memory serves me, is an annual get-together for Scouts from all over your region. These Jubilees are held in conjunction with the national Jubilee, blah blah blah. Basically, you had to be seen in public and do various things that would suggest you're learning to be a productive member of society through scouting. I still have a gold-plated coin from the Diamond Jubilee. We were at the Air Force Academy that time. I remember making little trinkety things with popsicle sticks and colorful yarn. Apparently I was pretty good at this, I ended up with a metric assload of these little shit-crafts. (they weren't totally useless. I had to bury a lot of pet hamsters. The popsicle crosses, sans colorful yarn, make great grave markers.)

The progression in Scouting is Cub Scout to Webelo to Boy Scout to Eagle Scout. Our little scout heads had been filled with stories from Boy's Life® magazine and tales apparently from the lexicon of Scouting lore of the legendary folks who attained the mythical rank of EAGLE SCOUT. Sure, it was easy enough to get that stupid wolf badge, even the bobcat badge. So, you got your bear badge...Got some arrowheads...Good for you. You got your little epaulet thingy and became a webelo..(I know, I know. I've heard it. We blow, alright, I said it). Now, you'll be a Boy Scout and you can get little merit badges and tie knots and camp and shit, but DO YOU THINK YOU HAVE A SHOT AT EAGLE!? You got another thing comin', boy...

My favorite shit story about Eagle Scout attainment made the rank sound so unattainable, it ultimately ended my scouting career. Synopsis: anemic scout does well, strives for Eagle Scout, knows that he'll have to GIVE BLOOD to attain the rank, but GIVING BLOOD will surely kill him. Like a good scout, he gives the blood, gets the Eagle, loses his life. Took one for the team. Died a proud hero. See what I mean about cult?

I certainly wasn't going to give more than the requisite hour a week in meetings, let alone my life to be a scout, not that I was anemic...Just as well, I decided it was a good time to pull out of this cult just as I became a Boy Scout. Besides, i was entering the magical phase of my life known as "Junior High." You wear your Cub Scout uniform to school in 3rd grade, you're kinda cool. You wear your Boy Scout Uniform to school in 7th grade, kiss your ass goodbye. Discretion IS the better part of valor, after all.

My Mom was our Den mother for a while, too. Basically, all that meant was that den meetings were held at my house, baby. I didn't have to go anywhere but home after school. Of course, that was when we lived farther away from school than at any time during my school career. There is a give and take, after all...not like I had to walk. My Mom would come pick me up in our old Dodge Coronet. I loved that car. I loved our Gremlin, too but Dad wrecked it. The Dodge, we traded for a set of golf clubs that I used maybe twice. I still suck at golf. And I miss the Dodge. (sigh)

I miss Hibbards, too. It's long gone, It's a Chipotle® now, so it brings me SOME joy. I just don't get to ride the elevator anymore, which was the only motivation I had to become a scout in the first place. Scouting still haunts me, however. We have family reunions every summer at a Kiwanis camp that's used by the Boy Scouts on Grand Mesa. Every time I'm there I can feel the spectre of mr. Baden-Powell looming, chastising me for not attaining Eagle. He also plays tricks on me like making me spend 4 days with my extended family and letting the air out of my air mattress. Also, I've concluded that the camp is left in a state of constant disrepair at his behest, simply to annoy me. Damn him...

Labels: indignities, lame stories, me roots

Being that this will be the first ever 'blog' entry for me, I'm probably going to fail to make it interesting, but here goes...I've often had conversations in my head, working out problems for myself or just simply debating the finer points of issues that I care about (yes, debating with myself). I picked this habit up at an early age. I wasn't an only child, nor am I now, but I've always had a much easier time conversing with myself than with others. I sent this trait into overdrive about 7 years ago when I started guest hosting radio talk shows. Debating or conversing in one's own head is a great way to work out kinks in a monologue or to be prepared for challenging questions. Anyway, what I was getting at is that often I have great conversations in my head and think "I should write this crap down..." Perhaps that's what this will be. We'll get around to the radio BS later.

One of the things I've noticed about the few 'blogs' or blog-style sites that I feel compelled to keep up with is that these people generally have a love, in some way, for professional wrestling. This has often puzzled me, though I'm not sure why. I personally haven't kept up with professional wrestling for many years, which is not to say that it's not ok to do so. My sister still watches the WWE and she IS still blood relation...Anyway, like everything else that I have come across in my time, I have extensively analyzed the impact that pro wrestling has had on my life. Before you judge, read on...

When I was in elementary school, I was introduced to the wonderful world of professional wrestling via television. The WWF was new and compeletly exciting to me. At the time, the AWA, the NWA and the WWF were the dominant associations, minus the smaller local circuits. At the time, we didn't have cable television (although I persistently begged my parents for it, cable wouldn't come into our lives for a few years...Approximately when I was nearly in Junior High School.) and so the only wrestling I could get, if I were lucky and it wasn't pre-empted by an infomercial, was the WWF...I had heard of the AWA and the NWA from the limited material I found at the library and at bookstores (this all sounds pathetic, I know) but for me, the WWF was king. I was a fan of the Iron Sheik, Nikolai Volkoff, Rowdy Roddy Piper and their ilk. The 'good guys' sickened me while the 'bad guys' spoke to my inner evil. How I miss such clear divisions. You were either for or against and everyone stuck together...With some exceptions. Andre the Giant was 'bad' for some time. Brutus Beefcake straddled the line, eventually becoming the barber and hell, even Leapin' Lanny Poffo was reinvented as 'the Genius.' I still liked him, either way. Probably all that flopping around and his underdog status.

My mother once announced with great certainty that she had two favorite wrestlers. "Mr. Wonderful" and Paul Orndorff. The subtle irony still makes me smile today.

Anyway, this is all very random, I know, stick with me...What I'm getting at is that I was HOOKED. I was SO into this pro wrestling stuff...I drew cartoons about wrestling, I had 'the wrestling album', I had the stupid action figures INCLUDING THE STUPID RING and I even built a makeshift ring in my backyard and staged matches. There is still a horrible blackmail video tape of the backyard stuff that exists to this day. My dream was to grow up and be a professional wrestler. Or the ring announcer. Maybe I could do both, I thought.

Now, you'd have to know me to understand that this was a significant detour in my young life. From 3rd grade on, I had decided my fate. I was going to be a "commercial artist," a job title that I had selected from the list at 'career day.' It was expected that I would just follow my path and shut up. I had always been proficient at drawing little cartoons, so, to everyone I knew, it seemed natural. now, though, I was threatening to destroy the very fabric that holds the universe together by straying from my destiny. That's right, Mom and Dad...I'm going to be a pro wrestler, just like Jake the Snake Roberts and Randy Savage. Although sans reptiles and not quite as macho. Either way, that was it. I was set.

I was going to have the love of the crowd. I was going to be likeable without being flashy. Best of all, I was going to have the most devastating finishing move the world had ever seen. I was convinced that I had found the rainbow's end. My finishing maneuver may as well have come to me in a vision surrounded by trumpeting angels. I practiced on dummies that I made with pillows and old clothes. I practiced on my friends. I practiced and practiced and...yeah...Practiced. I was taking this quite seriously.

There is a reason that I'm a graphic artist today. Not a pro wrestler. Simply put, the reason is: Koko B. Ware. Koko B. Ware had a parrot. Koko B. Ware danced around like a monkey with a vibrating butt-plug. Koko B. Ware was flashy. Koko B. Ware had my finishing move.

That bastard.

I was crushed. Devastated. I remember it all very clearly. I was lying on the couch at home, eating doritos, no doubt. I watched the first match for this Koko fella and enjoyed his antics right up to the bitter end when he whipped out a devastating suplex-piledriver. MY devastating suplex-piledriver. Mine. Goddammit. Mr. B. Ware won his match and went on to have a brief career in the WWF. As for me, I knew that my dream was shattered. I was finishied before I had a chance to begin. Without my unique finisher, I wasn't marketable (I convinced myself of this at the age of 13.) I'd better just keep drawing and hope that pans out someday, I thought.

I have accomplished many things in the 16+ years since that incident. I'm still working as a graphic designer, I'm still a part-time radio DJ. I've been a pro hockey announcer and I have a happy marriage. But I still hate Koko B. Ware.

Yes, I still hate Koko B. Ware.

Labels: indignities, lame stories, me roots, pro wrasslin'