Lo Siento, Senor Poopie Pants

 The note on the teacher's desk read as follows: 

Dear Sub,

Welcome to my class of developmentally challenged kindergartners. You'll find today's lesson plan on the kidney table in the back of the room. Just follow the plan and you'll do fine.  Most of the kids don't speak English, but don't worry, my aide Mrs. Gomez will translate for you.  One of the kids in the class, Guadalupe, can help, as she is fairly fluent in English as well.  I'm at a workshop, so I may be back by the end of the school day to see how things went.

Mrs. Livingston

So began my first day as a substitute teacher.

One phrase in the letter immediately grabbed my attention.  "Developmentally challenged kindergartners," as I would find out soon enough, basically meant that the little bambinos could speak, poop, drool, cry, pee, fart, and put stuff in their bodies' various orifices.  I looked around for Mrs. Gomez the bilingual aide, but she was nowhere to be found.  I called the office.

"Uh, yeah, this is the sub in room 3. What time is the aide supposed to be here?"

"Oh, we forgot to tell you, Mrs. Gomez called out sick. You're kinda on your own today."

Beautiful, I thought. Just me and 32 Spanish-speaking five year olds.

I speak zero Spanish, so I was forced to develop a survival strategy.  Since I could pretty much tell from the kids' tone of voice if they were asking a question or making a statement, all questions would simply be answered with a "no."  What's the worst that could happen?  And if it was a statement beginning with the name of another kid, that was probably tattling.  In that case, I figured that I’d just confront the accused and make him stop whatever he was doing.

Shockingly, it worked like a charm.

"Senor, gobbletygooko taco emilio blabla gooba macha?" asked Felipe.  That's what it sounded like to me, anyway.

"No.”

Felipe went back to his table, sat down, and continued coloring a panda.

Dr. Spock can stick it, I thought.  I’m a child-development genius.

Luisa, an adorable little girl with a mucus-glazed face, approached.  "Maria blabati googa frappa enchiladamama guba glinko."

“Maria, you say?” I asked.  “Well let’s see what she’s up to, shall we?”  I walked over to her table, and wouldn't you know it, Maria was munching away on a blue-violet crayola.  I calmly took the crayon away, fetched the Easy-wipes, and helped Maria depurple her face.

"Gracias, Luisa," I said. Luisa smiled, causing another snot-bubble to burst on her upper lip. 

I'm a natural at this!  I wouldn't be surprised if I'm voted Disney's American Teacher of the Year.  I'll write a book about my experiences in the classroom, Bruce Willis will star in the motion picture.

A short while later, I felt a tug on my pant leg.  It was Jose.  "Maestro, Felipe waca boogity gooba binka caca."

Jose was apparently ratting out Felipe, who was still coloring his panda in a stunning array of non-traditional panda colors.  It looked like that poor panda had barfed up three pounds of Skittles.  Brimming with new-found confidence, I strutted over to Felipe's table and was immediately bombarded by the unmistakable stench of kiddie-crap along with a “yes, but it’s too late now” understanding of the question Felipe had been asking just a few minutes earlier.

I sent him to the office with a note that read "Please have Felipe call home. He pooped himself."  Given the smell Felipe was cultivating, I'm sure the note was unnecessary.

The next hour or so passed without any problems.  The kids colored, pasted pictures to match their vocabulary words, and snacked on Teddy Grahams and milk.  While they were eating, I read them Green Eggs and Ham, or to be completely accurate, Huevos Verdes con Jamon ("Huevos verdes con jamon? No me gusta, Juan Ramon").  And just when I was actually starting to have a good time with the rugrats, Pablo started crying his eyeballs out.

"MAESTRO! YO GOOBA BLOCA FLABBA JABBA WALLA FRAPA!"

Ya got me there, Pablo, I thought. This was neither a tattle nor a question.  Time to enlist the assistance of the allegedly bilingual Guadalupe.

"Guadalupe, come here please."

Guadalupe, the adorable butterball, toddled over. "Do you know what Pablo just said?"

"Chess," said Guadalupe.

"Well, will you please tell me?"

"He say, yo gooba bloca flabba jabba walla frapa." 

Thanks, Guadalupe, you've been helpful.  "No, Guadalupe, I mean, can you tell me what that means in English."

"Oh, chess, that means he have a crayon in his ear."

I looked in Pablo's ear and damned if Guadalupe hadn't nailed it.  There was a broken red crayon way down in there.  What was it with these kids and crayons, anyway?

Now, you need to understand that it had already been a long, frustrating, and exhausting day.  I wasn't exactly thinking clearly.  There was a problem, it needed to be solved, and I was the only one in the room capable of saving the day, or at least capable of retrieving the crayon from Pablo's ear.

And before we continue, I'm going to remind you that for the purposes of this story, you are on MY side.

Obviously, I needed a tool to reach far enough down into Pablo's ear.  Through some egregious teacher malpractice, Mrs. Livingston did not have a pair of tweezers anywhere in her desk.  What she did have were pipe-cleaners and scotch tape.  The metaphorical light bulb clicked on above my addled skull.

First, I deftly fashioned a long hook out of one of the pipe cleaners.  And just to make sure I could get the crayon secured, I stuck a tiny ball of scotch tape at the end of the hook.

I knelt down beside Pablo, who was sitting in his chair -- still crying.  The rest of the kids, enthralled by the proceedings, gathered round.  I rechecked the tape and straightened the pipe cleaner for maximum reach.  The kids held their collective breath.  As I raised the pipe cleaner to Pablo's ear, a little voice inside my head finally decided to speak up.

"Hey, dumbass, just what do you think you’re doing?"

Upon further review, I realized this was perhaps a bad idea.  But I couldn't just leave the crayon in the kid's ear, and I really didn't want to bug the office again, not after the "Felipe and the Pantalones of Doom" incident.  It was a puzzler.  A bamboozler.  A conundrum, even.

"Senor?" said Guadalupe.

"Yes, Guadalupe, what is it?"

"Maybe eef Pablo shake hees head, de crayon comes out."

Hot damn. That's so crazy it just might work. "Hey, Pablo, come here a minute."

Pablo shook his head back and forth as hard as he could.  He held it parallel(ish) to the ground and smacked the side of his head a few times.

And God-damn, the crayon popped out and fell to the floor.  The children cheered.  Pablo gave Guadalupe a high-five.  Kids jumped for joy.  Luisa gave me a big hug, smearing snot all over the front of my white Pierre Cardin shirt.  Fiesta time!

Amidst the whooping and hollering, Mrs. Livingston entered the room.  Her workshop had ended a bit early.

"Wow!" she said.  "Looks like you had a great day!"

That's right, Mrs. Livingston.  Never mind the absent aide, the lodged crayon, Luisa's cavalcade o' mucus and Senor Poopie Pants.  Our day was just fantastic.

d

The Lionfish Won't Sleep Tonight

For most of my life, I've been blissfully unaware of environmental issues that seem to panic the rest of civilization.  I've never been concerned with the ozone layer, I find recycling to be a major pain in the ass, and I firmly believe that global warming is a figment of some tree-hugger's imagination.  Seriously, I live in Southern California and about a month ago it snowed.

Al Gore can bite me.

But after reading an article on Yahoo! News (slogan: Cyber-space's Answer to the National Enquirer) about a recent crisis in Florida, I feel compelled to speak up on behalf of the entire Animal Kingdom.  Because apparently, lionfish are taking over the world.

According to the article, the lionfish population has been exploding in Caribbean and Atlantic waters, causing major destruction such as preying on the local fish, shrimp, and crab populations in coral reefs.  Not only that, but particularly malicious lionfish have gone so far as to spray paint graffiti on the reefs and commit other random acts of oceanic vandalism.  Things have gotten so far out of hand some scientists are now listing the invasive lionfish species as among the top fifteen threats to global biodiversity.  I don't know what that means, but it sounds pretty bad.

You're probably asking yourself at this point how the lionfish were introduced into Florida waters in the first place.  According to U.S. government researchers, who seem to have an answer for everything, the red lionfish made their Floridian debut during Hurricane Andrew when -- this is true -- an aquarium broke and six fish spilled into Miami's Biscayne Bay.

That's right, six fish.  And we're at DEFCON 1 on the Lionfish Threat Scale.  Even assuming that the gender breakdown of the six initial lionfish was three male and three female, it seems like it would take an awful lot of undersea boinking to create a population large enough to mess with global biodiversity (again, whatever that is).

But not to worry.

A Key Largo-based conservation group Reef Environmental Education Foundation (motto: We Don't Care What Our Name is, As Long As the Acronym is "REEF"), has bravely solved the lionfish problem by releasing "The Lionfish Cookbook," a collection of forty-five recipes.  According to Lad Akins, director of special projects for REEF, "Lionfish are absolutely good eating -- a delicacy.  It's delicately flavored white meat, very buttery, especially if you put lots of butter on it."  The cookbook is but the first step in Akins's plan to make human beings the top predator of the invading lionfish.  After releasing the cookbook and extolling the culinary wonder of lionfish meat, Akins went on to say, "And not only are lionfish tasty, they've also been talking a lot of trash about humans as a species.  They said we're a bunch of lazy narcissists that think we own the planet.  And our mama is so fat she could carry a 15-pound Ebonite bowling ball in her belly button."

A word of caution, though.  Akins says the fish can be netted, speared or caught by rod and reel, but he recommends handling them with puncture-proof gloves to avoid a painful prick (fill in your own joke here) from the lionfish's -- and I'm quoting him directly -- "venomous spines."

Now I will be the first to admit that I'm no master chef, but once I come across the recipe instruction that reads, "first remove the venomous spines," lionfish is no longer on the evening's menu.  I'm going with a simpler and non-lethal alternative such as meatloaf.  Akins argues that lionfish meat is safe to eat and actually contains no venom because "the venom is only in the spines."  To me, it seems like the man doth protesteth too much.  His hatred for the lionfish seems so intense that I'm starting to question the guy's motives.  Did Akins's wife run off with a particularly attractive and debonair lionfish who tempted her with his "venomous spine of love?"  Did a school of lionfish discredit his doctoral dissertation by refusing to migrate to warmer waters during the winter equinox?  Surely he's not getting this worked up just because they're going after crabs and shrimp.

So my advice is to ignore the psychotic, vengeful ramblings of Lad Akins and leave the innocent lionfish alone.  Stick with the more palatable tuna, lobster, or butterfly shrimp.

If you want, I'll even send you my recipe for meatloaf.


d

The "Bigest" Loser

Have you ever been curled up in your most comfortable chair reading the latest Michael Connelly novel, steaming mug of Swiss Miss instant cocoa on the end table, and out of nowhere discovered that the book contained a misspelling or typographical error?

Didn't it just piss you off?

It baffles me no end how mistakes find their way into best-selling hardcover novels by A-list authors.  This isn't some shitty-ass local newspaper like the Montgomery Advertiser (slogan: Alabama's #1 Bird Cage Lining Since 1948) we're talking about here.  These are major publishing houses like Little, Brown and Company or Random House who undoubtedly employ teams of highly-paid copy editors to sit around reading manuscripts and see that no errors make it to the final print run.

So I guess it shouldn't surprise me when I'm driving past Rug Masters, an outdoor area rug distribution center (I'm being kind, it's really a trash-laden street corner), and notice a horrific misspelling on their signage:

That's right, Rug Masters is having their BIGEST SALE EVER!

I can only imagine two scenarios that would allow something like this to happen.

Scenario 1: The owner of Rug Masters (we'll call him Eddie) decides to order an eye-catching yellow and red vinyl banner to display on the chain-link fence, advertising their Biggest Sale Ever(!).  Eddie places an order with Big Dave's Quality Signs and Banners, and on the form where you're supposed to write what you want your sign (or banner) to say, he writes "BIGEST SALE EVER!"  Maybe he was in a hurry, maybe he's a third-grade dropout who was absent on "double-the-consonant-and-then-add-the-suffix" day, one way or another Eddie screwed up.  Clearly, this is all his fault.

But let's continue down this road a little farther.

Big Dave receives the order form from Rug Masters and is about to pass it along to his banner-production team when he notices the mistake.  I guess it's possible that he can't spell worth a damn either and doesn't catch it, but that's pretty unlikely.  In order for the spelling error to go to print, Big Dave must have thought, "Ah, screw it, it's his sign, we'll spell it however he wants."  While this is definitely not the proper attitude for someone in an upper management position, maybe Big Dave was having a rough day or just wanted to jerk around with a linguistically-challenged area rug salesman.  In his shoes, I may very well have done the same thing for no reason other than shits and giggles.  So ignoring the mistake, Big Dave passes the order form down the line to his sign production team.

But wait.  We're not done yet.

The gentleman in sign production, let's call him Phil, is now in charge of making Rug Masters's advertising vision a reality.  His job description probably includes "designing banners," "painting signs," and other such artistic phrases.  "Proof-reading" probably (indeed, hopefully) doesn't come up all that often.  Even so, we're not talking about running spell-check on a 300-page doctorate thesis, this is a three-word banner.  I'm going to assume that Phil also notices that the word "bigest" is shy one G.  So he gets on the horn and calls Big Dave in the front office.

"Uh, Dave  . . . Yeah, it's Phil over in the production department . . . We just got this order for a Rug Masters banner . . . right, that one . . . uh, well, seems like they spelled 'biggest' wrong . . . yeah, you want me to fix it or just let it go? . . . 'fuck 'im,' you say? . . . well, all right, you're the boss."

Against his better judgment, Phil goes ahead and makes the banner, misspelling and all.  It's shipped via UPS to Eddie at Rug Masters, who obliviously hangs it on his chain-link fence.

Which brings us to the other possibility.

Scenario 2: The owner of Rug Masters (we'll still call him Eddie, I wouldn't want to confuse anyone) decides to order an eye-catching yellow and red vinyl banner to display on the chain-link fence, advertising their Biggest Sale Ever(!).  Eddie places an order with Big Dave's Quality Signs and Banners, and on the form where you're supposed to write what you want your sign (or banner) to say, he writes "BIGGEST SALE EVER!" in his neatest printing, every word spelled correctly.

Big Dave receives the order form, double-checks it for accuracy as per company policy, and passes it along to his banner-production team headed by Phil, a notorious dullard and a bit of a slacker.

Phil creates the Rug Masters banner but for whatever reason -- maybe it was the three Harvey Wallbangers he had at lunch, maybe it was just his usual carelessness -- he unfortunately leaves a critical letter G out of the word "biggest."  He boxes up the banner and ships it to Rug Masters.

Don't you think that Eddie (he's the owner of Rug Masters, remember?) might at this point make a phone call to Big Dave, something to the effect of, "Hey, dipshit!  You sent me a sign with a spelling mistake!  I'm sending this back, and you're gonna ship out a new one pronto!"  He's certainly not going to say, "Ah, close enough," and hang the sign on his fence, just begging to be publicly ridiculed by some sarcastic humor writer.

So I batted those two scenarios around in my head for a few days and finally decided to get to the bottom of this.  On my way home from work a few days ago, I stopped by Rug Masters to see what was what.  As it turns out, the manager's name is not Eddie, but we'll keep calling him that, just to maintain continuity and protect his privacy.

Eddie is an older guy, probably in his mid-50's.  He's wiry without being scrawny and his graying flat-top hair cut screams out "ex-marine!"  He's wearing faded blue jeans and a well-worn Rug Masters sweatshirt.  Here's our conversation:

EDDIE: Help ya find sumpin'?

ME: No, I'm not really interested in buying a rug or anything, I just wanted to ask you about your sign.

EDDIE: My sign?

ME: Yeah, the yellow banner over there, advertising your Biggest Sale Ever.

EDDIE: What about it?

ME: There's a word spelled wrong.  Biggest.  It's supposed to have two Gs.

EDDIE: Yeah, we've had a few folks mention that.

ME: And yet you leave it up there?

EDDIE: Still makes sense, right?  Biggest Sale Ever.  Hell, you figgered it out.

ME: Well, sure, but . . . 

EDDIE: And it ain't like I'm a school teacher or a writer or sumpin'.  I sell rugs.  People want a rug, they come buy a rug without worryin' all about a messed up sign.  Can't see that it makes all that much a diff'rence.

ME: Don't you think it gives your place an air of, I don't know, carelessness?

EDDIE: Take a look at my rug selection there.  Tell me what ya think.

ME (looking over his selection of area rugs): Actually, they're pretty nice.  I like that round one over there.

EDDIE: Now, if I told you you could have that rug for forty bucks, what would you say?

ME: I'd say that's a pretty good deal.  I've seen 'em at Bed, Bath and Beyond for double that.

EDDIE: What the hell you go to Bed, Bath and Beyond for?

ME: I have a fiancee.

EDDIE: Got it.  Anyway, if I'm offerin' you a top quality area rug at a discount rate, you really gonna give much of a shit if my sign's spelt wrong?

ME: I suppose not.  Can I ask how it happened, though?  Who screwed up the sign?

EDDIE: Probably me when I ordered it.  I know how to spell, 'course, but my handwritin' leaves sumpin' to be desired.

ME: Fair enough.

EDDIE: So, you wanna buy that rug?

ME: What the hell.  Roll it up.

There you have it.  Eddie's handwriting was the culprit, but still, the sign company should've figured it out.  So we're going to lay the real blame on Big Dave and his drunken employee Phil.

d

d

Suicide Squeeze

Mike the Whip was the one kid in our neighborhood who would do anything on a dare. He was fearless, or maybe just good old-fashioned crazy. At any rate, on those days when us guys were just sitting around, bored out of our minds, all we had to say was, "Hey, Mike, I dare you to . . . " and it was showtime.

"Hey, Mike, I dare you to eat that salamander."

"Hey, Mike, I dare you to steal a six-pack of beer from Stop N Shop."

"Hey, Mike, I dare you to jump your bike over five trash cans."

Busted his leg on that last one. 

No matter. Mike may have only gotten the child's platter when it came to common sense, but he went back for seconds and thirds at the all-you-can-eat cajones buffet.

Of all the kids in our 10-12 year-old range, Mike was the one who seemed to have the most experience with girls. That is to say, it was pretty much all he talked about. He probably went through puberty when he was six. None of us really believed his ribald tales of smooch-enhanced gropery, but he did have a certain flair for the story-telling.

One Saturday morning, Mike, Robbie and I were sitting around on my front porch, killing time by throwing rocks at squirrels.

"You guys remember when I went to camp last summer?" Mike asked.

"No," said Robbie and I in unison.

"I guess that was when you guys were on vacation or somethin'. So anyway, I was at camp, and every night at dinner there was this hot twelve year-old named Michelle checkin' me out. So one time I go over to her . . . "

"Wait, Mike, since when do boys and girls go to the same camp?" I asked.

"They do at this one, shut up. So I go over to this girl Tracy and I . . . "

"I thought you said her name was Michelle."

"It was Tracy, I just remembered, shut up. Michelle was some other girl. Shit, you guys keep interrupting, where was I?"

"You were about to do the deed with either Michelle or Tracy at some camp you supposedly went to last summer that lets boys and girls hang out together." I was more than happy to get him back up to speed.

"Yeah, right, so I ask, uh, Tracy if she wants to sit with me at the campfire that night. She says yeah, so once the fire is goin' and the counselors are all wrapped up in some stupid ghost story, me and her started makin' out. I even got some boob."

"That is so much bullshit," said Robbie, as he nailed a squirrel in the head with a stone.

"Shut up, man, you're just mad because I've gotten to second base and you guys haven't even held a girl's hand yet."

We'd have been pissed at him, if he hadn't been right. When it came to the whole "first base, second base" thing, Robbie and I hadn't even made it out of the on-deck circle.

We continued shooting the shit and taking target practice on small rodents. After a while Robbie noticed Debbie Esposito walking down the street, headed our way. This could be interesting.

Debbie "Ta-tas" Esposito lived a couple blocks from us. By the age of sixteen, she was well-proportioned in the physical sense, rated a solid "seven" on the traditional scale from one-to-ten, and had a reputation for being rather friendly with the high school boys.

Okay, she was a slut.

Robbie decided that it was "put up or shut up" time for ol' Mike the Whip.

"Mike, if you're so experienced, how 'bout you take a shot at Debbie over there?"

"Yeah, Mike," I goaded. "She's just your type."

By "your type", of course, I meant "a breathing female". And that's giving Mike the benefit of the doubt on "breathing".

"C'mon, man, she's like sixteen. She's too old for me."

Robbie wouldn't settle for that one. "Come on, Mike, you're an old pro. I'll bet she's just dying for a macho guy like you."

"Nah, she's a sleazebag anyway."

"Like that's ever stopped you."

Eventually, I had to play the card . . .

"Hey, Mike, I dare you to go grab Debbie's boob."

A look of intensity gripped Mike the Whip's facial features. His eyes narrowed, his lip curled, and he took on the appearance of a pre-pubescent Gary Busey.

Showtime.

Debbie was dressed in her usual skankiform. Semi-permed hair, too much lip gloss, short-shorts, and a skimpy top to show off the goods. As she passed my house, Mike trotted up beside her.

"Hey, Deb, how you doin' today?" Smooth opening line, at least from where we were sitting.

"Oh, hi Mike. Don't you look cute today?" Debbie was not above the casual flirtation, even with us younger kids. Kinda sick, now that I think about it, but at the time we didn't mind one damn bit.

"Is that a new top? What's it made of?"

"Oh, this? It's just cotton."

"Yeah? Lemme feel it!"

And before anyone knew what was happening, Mike reached out and got a handful of left hooter, and gave it a quick squeeze.

"Oh shit," Robbie said, and we snuck into my house. We didn't want to be around for the aftermath.

Mike came inside a few minutes later, looking cool and collected.

“Man, Mike, I can’t believe you squeezed her boob,” said Robbie.

“What, you dared me. It’s not like I never touched a girl before.”

“Debbie didn’t smack you or anything?” I asked.

“Nah, I think she kinda liked it. Oh, she pretended to be mad for a minute, called me a dirty little pervert. But I turned on the charm and she started laughing. We're cool."

"What a slut," said Robbie.

That probably would have been the end of it, if not for one factor that the three of us had completely forgotten about.

Debbie had a brother.

Vinnie Esposito was a fourteen-year old Neanderthal with the disposition of a constipated alligator. Short, stocky, fairly muscular, Vinnie looked like a beer keg with a bad haircut. Had he grown up in today's world instead of the 1970’s, he'd have been a child psychologist's dream. Bi-polar, oppositional-defiant, attention-deficit, and perhaps even paranoid-schizophrenic, Vinnie was the Baskin-Robbins of behavior disorders.

Mental makeup aside, though, Vinnie did have a sense of responsibility when it came to his family. When your sister is a slut, you kinda expect guys to take advantage of her once in a while and when that happens, it’s the brother’s sworn duty to kick the living shit out of them. Vinnie took this duty seriously.

Case in point:

A few weeks prior to Mike the Whip’s courtship of Debbie’s hooter, a guy by the name of Glenn Pluchinsky made a move on her at the high school Homecoming Dance. Debbie responded to Pluchinsky’s advances in her typical manner, which is to say, she was enthusiastically consentual. Pluchinsky and Debbie took their business outside and set up shop under the baseball field bleachers. Though eyewitness accounts vary, the general consensus was that Pluchinsky cruised into third base with a stand-up triple and very likely stretched it into an inside-the-pants home run.

The following Monday, Vinnie waited for Pluchinsky after school and without preamble, pounded him into a quivering pile of organic wreckage.

Since Debbie was, as we’ve established, a slut, the Pluchinsky beating was far from an isolated incident. In fact, for Vinnie, it was somewhat routine. Therefore, when Robbie and I saw him knocking on Mike’s front door that Sunday morning, we knew that Mike's number had come up.

Fortunately, and ironically, Mike was at church with his mother and sister at the time, so Vinnie’s knocks went unanswered. Not wanting to make a return trip later, he took a seat on the front steps to wait.

Robbie and I were playing catch in my front yard, trying desperately not to make eye contact with the loitering lunkhead across the street. Since we had basically goaded Mike into grabbing Debbie’s fun bag, there was a very real possibility that Vinnie would include us in the carnage if he somehow found out.

“Maybe we should go over there and talk to him,” I suggested.

“What are you, nuts?” asked Robbie, as he threw the baseball back to me. “We just need to lay low and hope he goes away.”

“Yeah, but if Mike tells him we were involved, he’ll come after us, too.”

“You think Mike would rat us out like that?”

I tossed the ball back to Robbie. “Well, not at first probably, but if Vinnie was kicking his ass and he thought it would help. Yeah.”

“That bastard!”

“Right, so we gotta get to Vinnie before Mike can tell him the whole story.”

The next time Robbie threw me the ball, I let it sail past me so it rolled into Mike’s yard. This way, I could casually strike up a conversation with Vinnie and maybe get me and Robbie off the hook.

“Nice catch, douchebag,” said Vinnie.

“Yeah, heh heh, I know. Mike’s not home, ya know. He’s at church.”

“Ya know when he’s gonna be back?”

A fair question, but if I answered, I would be guilty of aiding and abetting a known thug in the pre-meditated pummeling of my best friend. But if I dodged the question, it could set Vinnie off and, well, who knows what could happen. I did the only sensible thing under the circumstances.

“About eleven-thirty. Why?”

“’Cause he messed with my sister yesterday. You know anything about that?”

“He, um, well . . . he said, uh . . . nope. We haven't seen Mike in a few days. He's been grounded, I think.”

He got up and started walking away. “Well, if ya see him, tell him he's dead meat. I'm comin' back later.”

“Okay, sure will. See ya, Vinnie.”

"Screw off, shit brain."

I picked up the baseball and went back across the street. Robbie was waiting for me. “Sooooo, how’d it go?”

“Well, I don't think Vinnie knows you and me are involved, but Mike’s a dead man.”

“We gotta warn him, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But Vinnie’ll find him sooner or later.”

It turned out to be sooner.

Mike got home from church around 11:45. He went inside, got changed, probably had lunch, and at about 12:30 he was knocking at my front door. Robbie and I were inside watching TV.

“You guys gonna come out?” he asked.

“Yeah, uh, Mike, we gotta talk to you,” I said.

He sprawled out on the couch. “What’s up?”

“Well, Mike,” said Robbie. “Vinnie Esposito was at your house earlier, said he’s gonna kick your ass for messing with Debbie.”

“How’d he find out?”

“Debbie prob’ly told him, I guess.”

“I ain’t afraid of that asshole. Let him try to mess with me.”

Now, we could’ve tried to reason with Mike, explained to him that Vinnie was about four years older than we were, and about twice the size. We could’ve reminded him what Vinnie had done to Glenn Pluchinsky (who, by the way, was two years OLDER than Vinnie), or maybe we could’ve helped Mike hide out for a while.

We also thought about getting Mike's mother involved, but we almost as scared of her as we were of Vinnie.  Also, Mrs. the Whip had a short fuse when it came to boys taking advantage of girls, so once she found out that Mike had groped Debbie, not only would she have condoned Vinnie's beating his ass, she probably would've helped.

But since Mike was displaying his typical bravado, and Robbie and I had cleared our consciences by warning him, we just let nature take its course.

It was a short course.

At about one-fifteen, Vinnie came back. Mike, Robbie and I were sitting on Mike’s front porch.

“Hey, Mike.  Get your ass over here,” barked Vinnie.

“What do you want, asshole?”

You gotta hand it to Mike the Whip. He was going to go out on his shield.

“I heard you felt up my sister yesterday.”

“Yep, sure did. She’s got quite the pair on her, don’t she?”

Robbie and I just looked at each other. This guy really WAS crazy.

“Come off your porch and say that.”

Mike got up, jumped down the steps, and met Vinnie out on the sidewalk.

“I said, your sister has quite a pair of –“

The word “tits” was muffled significantly by Vinnie’s right fist as it crunched into Mike’s mouth, loosening a couple teeth and popping his upper lip. Mike fought valiantly, but he was simply no match for the bigger, stronger and, as impossible as it seemed, crazier Vinnie Esposito.

After inflicting what he deemed sufficient punishment, Vinnie got off of Mike the Whipped, dusted himself off, and headed home without saying another word.

“You okay, Mike?”

“Umph humph.” He felt his face, assessing the damage. “Jutht a buthted lip and a couple looth teeth. Mebbe a black eye. Nuthin’ theriouth.”

“Sorry we dared you to grab her boob,” said Robbie. “We forgot about Vinnie.”

“No thweat,” replied Mike. “It wath worth it. You guyth believe that I got to thecond bathe now?”

Robbie and I just shook our heads and laughed. Not only had Mike gotten to second base, he’d scored on a suicide squeeze.


d

The Parker School Merry-Go-Boom

Remember the good ol' days when no one cared about personal safety? We had no seat belt laws, in fact, I clearly remember riding shotgun in Grandma's 1971 Chevy Impala, standing up on the passenger seat. We weren't required to wear bicycle helmets, it was just assumed that if we were stupid enough to crash our bikes (and we were), we'd manage to not crack our skulls in the process. Maybe we (and by "we" I mean society at large) were naive, or maybe it was just a convenient way to manage the overpopulation problem. At any rate, for a child growing up in the 70's, danger was everywhere, and we laughed in its face.

Take, for example, school playgrounds.

Nowadays, there are all sorts of rules and regulations that dictate proper monkeybar height, mandatory woodchip depth to cushion falls from the slide, and the scheduling of inspections and routine equipment maintenance. Due to this wussification of our nation's playgrounds, kids of the 21st century have to put forth quite an effort if they want to injure themselves.

Such was not the case for kids of my generation.

For one thing, all of our playground equipment was built on rock-solid asphalt. No woodchips, no synthetic rubber cushioning. If we fell, we bruised. We bled. We didn't have much grass on our playground, either. The area that wasn't black-topped was simply a large area covered with stones. Most of the time it served as our kickball field, but let's face it, it was basically a rock garden. Did we throw these rocks at each other? Of course we did. Our only rule was "don't aim for the head", with the emphasis on "aim for". By the time I hit third grade, our school nurse was so good at stitching up gashed foreheads she could've given the Toronto Maple Leafs' trainer a run for his money.

All of which brings us to the Parker School Merry-Go-Round Incident of 1973.

You remember those playground merry-go-rounds, right? A circular bench on a vertical axle, anchored in the asphalt? Parker School had one, and it was pretty popular with the second and third grade crowd.

One morning in particular, a bunch of us were in the mood to spin till we puked. To that end, we recruited Big John to supply the elbow grease.

John Pizzarelli was a fifth grader who was old enough to be in seventh. His poor reading skills combined with his blatant disregard for the mandatory attendance policy led to him being held back a couple times. He was enormous but also a real sweetheart, and he could be counted on to make recess a more enjoyable experience for everyone. You need someone to push you on the swings, higher than you ever imagined? Big John was your man. A fall guy to start the rock fights? He's ready and willing. And, of course, he was the perfect source of power for the merry-go-round.

I took my seat and hung on tight. I should add here that this particular merry-go-round did not have any sort of safety straps or restraining bars. There was a bench and a bar to hold onto, and that was it.

It wasn't enough.

John got the ride spinning, beyond any speed that would be considered safe. Mistaking our terror for excitement, John redoubled his efforts and soon we were pulling four G's with our innards in turmoil. My palms started sweating, and I could feel my fingers slipping from the metal bar.

The next thing I knew, I was flying through the air. There were no woodchips to absorb the impact, no fancy padding to cushion my descent. Just the old-fashioned thunk of head against blacktop. A crowd gathered around me, and when I regained my bearings, I managed to stand up. The bell rang, so I headed to class.

Halfway through roll call, I became engulfed in a wave of nausea. Mrs. Fedak called my name, and when I tried to say "here", all that came out was my breakfast. Pop Tarts and chocolate milk, if I remember correctly. I went to the nurse, who called my dad and suggested that he take me to have my head examined.

Not the last time someone would make that suggestion, by the way.

It turned out that I had a mild concussion, and the doctor sent us home with ice packs and instructions to not let me sleep for a while.

In the aftermath of the merry-go-round incident, the Parker School administration took a crucial step in improving the overall safety of the playground. Oh, they didn't lower the monkeybars, replace the stone field with sod, or install woodchips and padding. They established and enforced one simple rule:

John Pizzarelli was no longer permitted to push the merry-go-round.




d

What Ever Happened To . . . Jack and Jill?

Jack and Jill: The Myth

In the early 1960's, the town of Windsor Locks wasn't much more than a quaint rural village on the Connecticut River.  Main Street, the home of local businesses such as Patterson's Pharmacy, Dapper Dan's Dry Cleaners, and Combes's Barber Shop (yes, it was his real name), was six blocks long and displayed exactly two traffic lights.   Like most small town residents, Windsor Locksians were a tight-knit community who had known each other all their lives.  In fact, Shirley Graham, the 85-year old kindergarten teacher at Windsor Locks Elementary School, bragged that she was the only teacher in the country who had taught four generations of the same family (the Cormans: John, kindergarten class of 1901; Michael, class of 1922; fraternal twins Charles and Claire, class of '41; Phillip, class of '63).

Jack Liszewski and Jill Murphy, 1963

At the center of town stood Barrett Hill, its steep slope making it a popular location for roller skating in the springtime and sledding during the snowy New England winters.  On warm quiet evenings, teenage boys and girls would often venture up the hill to "fetch a pail of water."  This phrase was actually a euphemism for making out, coined in the 40's when another pair of adolescent lovers did indeed go up a hill with the intent of drawing water from the well.  One thing led to another, though, and the pair came down the hill with not just the water, but also with flushed faces, hickeys, and, depending on your view about when life truly begins, a beautiful baby daughter.

Jack Liszewski and Jill Murphy were sixteen-year old high school sweethearts, and up to this point in their relationship their physical intimacy was limited to hand-holding and light kissing (Jack called it first base, Jill called it third).  Jack's buddies, most of whom had already hit the proverbial home run by anybody's definition, ranked Jack out constantly.

"Hey, Liszewski, when's your girlfriend gonna finally give you some?"

"Hey, Jack, what time's Jill due back at the convent?"

"Got another late night rendezvous with your right fist again, Jackie boy?"

Jack hung out with a bunch of assholes, basically.

Peer pressure being what it is, one summer afternoon in 1964, he decided it was time to take Jill up Barrett Hill to "fetch a pail of water."  Jill, unaware of Jack's expectations, packed a nice picnic lunch of deviled ham sandwiches, cole slaw and Orange Crush.  When they arrived at hilltop, Jack spread a blanket out in the shade of an oak and invited Jill to have a seat next to him.  After finishing their lunch, Jack initiated the kissing, as usual, and after a minute or two he made his move, caressing the side of Jill's right breast with his fingertips.  Jill slammed on the brakes immediately.

"Jack, you know I'm not ready for that yet.  Hands to yourself!"

"Aw, come on, Jill, we've been together for over a year now.  I'm starting to feel like Little Boy Blue Balls."

Put off by Jack's offensive language, Jill stood up to leave.  "Well, if that's all you're interested in, maybe you should find another girlfriend.  I'm sure Jessica Muffet is available, that tramp.  Rumor has it that she went all the way with Jack Horner after the Sadie Hawkins dance.  He stuck in something, and it sure wasn't his thumb."

"I'm not interested in Horner's sloppy seconds, Jill, I'm in love with you," he exaggerated, hoping that by expressing his deep devotion, his girlfriend would loosen up a little.

She didn't.

"I like being with you too, Jack.  Come give me a hug."

He hugged her all right, and while he was at it, Jack went for broke and grabbed Jill's exquisite behind with both hands and pulled her closer.  When Jill felt Jack's arousal digging into her thigh, she screamed and shoved him backwards.  Off balance, Jack tripped over an exposed root (the tree's) and fell all the way to the base of Barrett Hill, where he cracked his skull on the sidewalk.  As Jill ran down to check on him, she too lost her footing and tumbled downhill.  Fortunately, she did not suffer any injuries.

All the king's horses and all the king's men rushed to help . . . wait, no, sorry . . . the Windsor Locks Rescue Squad arrived moments later, and inexplicably tried to mend Jack's bashed-in noggin with vinegar and brown paper.  They transported the unconscious teen to Hartford General Hospital, where the E.R. triage nurse mocked the paramedics' attempts at first aid and immediately had Jack taken to the operating room.  The surgeons tried their best to save the boy, but due to severe swelling of the brain caused by a cerebral hemorrhage, Jack Liszewski died on the table.

Sister Jill Murphy became a nun in 1966, and spent the next thirty years teaching catechism classes at Our Lady of Perpetual Resistance in New Haven.  She died in 1996.


d

The Pen is Mightier

I was in second grade, sitting at my desk practicing cursive B's when the classroom phone rang.   As I watched Mrs. Michaels talk to the principal, the contents of my stomach did a spot-on impression of the Ringling Brothers' acrobats.  I was in big trouble, and I knew it.

It began the day before when Robbie West said he had something to show me.

Robbie was a key figure in most of my childhood mishaps.  The Evel Knievel incident, the Knickerbocker Toy Factory debacle, and of course, the Courtship of Debbie's Hooter.  He was a nice enough kid, but trouble seemed to find him and he was always eager to share it with the rest of us. 

"Whatcha got?" I asked.

"Check this out."  He showed me a ball-point pen.  But it wasn't just any pen.  This pen had a picture of a gorgeous bikini-clad hottie on it.

"Cool," I said.

"Wait, there's more."  Robbie turned the pen upside down and the bikini disappeared!  The chick was totally naked!

In today's world, a nudie pen would be no big deal whatsoever.  Any eight-year-old with a computer and moderately clueless parents can pull up all sorts of sexual debauchery with a couple mouse clicks.  But in 1973, a glimpse of boob was a lot harder to come by.

"Where'd you get that?" I asked.

"Swiped it from Stop-N-Shop."

"Trade ya for it."

When the haggling was done, I'd obtained the nudie pen for my Nerf basketball set and five pieces of Bazooka bubble gum.  I thought I'd gotten a great deal.

Didn't really work out that way.

My first mistake was taking the pen to school with me.  I was eight, what did I know?  I tucked it away in my desk, hidden safely in my pencil box.  No chance of the teacher finding it.

And then came my second mistake.  I took it out to lunch with me and showed it to Gordon Wackerman.  Why I chose Gordon is a question that perplexes me to this very day.  He was in my class, but he wasn't a particular friend of mine.  In fact, most kids didn't like him because he smelled bad and picked his nose a lot.  But for whatever reason, I walked over to his lunch table and sat down.

"Hey, Gordon."

"What do you want?"  he asked, digging for another nostril nugget.  Gross.

"Lookit what I got."  I showed him the pen, and demonstrated its magical powers.  Curiously, Gordon didn't seem all that interested.  "Isn't that cool?" I asked.

"I guess so."  He took a bite of his baloney sandwich, essentially ignoring me.  This boggled my mind.  What guy our age wouldn't be interested in a peek at a naked lady?   That's Gordon, I guess.  Captain Weirdo.

"Okay, well, see ya later."  I got up and headed out to the playground for recess.

I was playing on the swings when I noticed Gordon talking to Brenda the playground aide.  Their conversation lasted about ten seconds, and when it ended, Brenda headed my way.  The booger-eater had ratted me out!

Brenda was a scary figure, as lunch ladies and playground aides tend to be.  She weighed about two-eighty and wore way too much makeup.  She looked like Humpty Dumpty with a wig.  She gave me a withering scowl.

"Do you have something that you shouldn't?" she asked me.

If I'd been four or five years older, I would've snapped out a smart-ass reply.  "Yeah, a pair of your daughter's underwear" maybe, or "a bad case of the clap, if you believe what my pediatrician says".  Instead, the terrified and un-witty second grade version of me reached into my coat pocket and, without a word, handed her my stripper pen.

This was uncharted territory for me.  When the recess bell rang, we all headed back to class.  Kids were laughing and skipping, but for me it was more like the Bataan Death March.  I sat down at my desk and started working on the cursive B's.

Mrs. Michaels hung up the phone and headed over to my desk.  "Mr. Skyler wants to see you in his office," she said.

I walked down the hallway, picturing the horror that awaited me.  Did they still paddle kids in school?  I didn't know, but I had a feeling that I was going to find out, one way or the other.  For sure my parents would get a phone call, which meant a severe grounding or worse.

I entered the main office and said to the secretary, "Uh, Mrs. Michaels said I had to come see Mr. Skyler."

"He'll be with you in a minute," she said.  Was she smiling?  What's THAT all about?

I waited in the reception area for what seemed like four hours.  Suddenly, the door to the inner office swung open and with a thunderous explosion of flame and smoke, Mr. Skyler appeared.  He stood about seven foot five, and wore a long black cape and derby hat.  His eyes glowed red, and a thick green liquid oozed from festering sores on his face.  When he smiled, his fangs sparkled in the fluorescent glow of the ceiling lights.

Or so it seemed.

"Come in and have a seat," he commanded.

I went in.

I had a seat.

Mr. Skyler sat down behind his desk, opened the top drawer, and took out a pen.  MY pen.

"Tell me where you got this."

There were a lot of things I could've said at that point.  I could've feigned ignorance.  I could've said that I found it on the school bus that morning.  I could've really given the story a twist and claimed that the pen was Gordon Wackerman's and he was just trying to get me into trouble.

I didn't say any of those things.  When the cards were on the table, I panicked and turned snitch.

"Robbie West gave it to me."

I was eight years old, give me a break.  I'm not proud of it.

Mr. Skyler then gave me a very stern and dignified lecture about how the human body is a wonderful creation, and that it should not be thought of as dirty, blah, blah, blah.  To be honest, I wasn't really listening.  I was too busy trying to keep my bladder under control.

The lecture ended, and he sent me back to class.

I sat by Robbie on the bus ride home.  He got called to the office right after I did ("I have no idea how they knew you gave it to me," I insisted) and apparently received the same lecture.

"Did you get the pen back?" he asked me.

"No.  Skyler probably kept it."  Wouldn't have surprised me.  He could've stashed it in the drawers with the skulls of former students and the keys to the school dungeon.

It was a long time until Robbie and I got anywhere near illicit nudie stuff again.  If I recall correctly, it was fourth grade when he found his dad's stash of Playboys.

We didn't take them to school, that's for damn sure.


l

Celebrity Health Tips: Debunk'd!

When it comes to health and nutrition, I'm admittedly not an expert.  My dietary habits are deplorable, my exercise routine consists primarily of walking to the refrigerator, and I visit the doctor about as often as Mel Gibson visits the Museum of Tolerance.  I freely admit this, so if ever you see a book entitled, "Knucklehead's Guide to a Healthier Lifestyle", you should take it with a grain of salt.  Or an In-N-Out Double-Double.  But please buy the book, because I'll need the money to finance my triple-bypass.

It seems obvious, but dietary suggestions, health advice, and other matters of science are best left to the professionals.  Not everyone agrees with this, however, as we're constantly being bombarded by celebrity-endorsed health tips that make absolutely no sense at all.  For example, supermodel Naomi Campbell, actor Ashton Kutcher, and his mom Demi Moore follow a diet that includes nothing but maple syrup, lemon, and pepper, for periods up to two weeks.  Can you imagine?

"What's for breakfast, Mom?" Ashton asks Demi.

"Same as yesterday, Ashy dear.  A bowl of maple syrup."

"Oh, good!  And did you remember to pack my lunch?"

"I did indeed.  It's a nice, juicy lemon and freshly ground pepper."

Don't get me wrong, I've had lemon and pepper together too.  But it was slathered on a grilled piece of chicken.

Naomi Campbell told Oprah (of all people) that she follows this diet because "it's good to clean out your body once in a while."

With maple syrup?  Sorry, I don't get it.

Naomi, Ashton, and Demi, however, are nutritional visionaries compared to pop star Sarah Harding.  Sarah told Now magazine that she crumbles charcoal -- that's right, Kingsford briquettes -- over her food.   According to the article, she does this because, quote, charcoal doesn't taste of anything and apparently absorbs all the -- and here she uses the technical medical term -- "bad damaging stuff in the body." 

The Sense About Science group asked chemical scientist Dr. John Elmsley to comment on this idea.  When he finally stopped laughing, Dr. Elmsley said that while charcoal is known to absorb toxic molecules when used in gas masks and sewage treatment -- notice he made no mention of the human digestive system -- it's unnecessary when it comes to diet.  It seems as though the body is already capable of managing the "bad damaging stuff."

Which brings us to British cage fighter Alex Reid.

Remember the scene in the movie "Rocky" where Stallone wakes up at the crack of dawn and chugs a glassful of raw eggs?  Disgusting, right?  Well, Alex Reid's training regimen takes this concept to entirely new level.  To prepare for a big fight -- I swear I'm not making this up -- he "reabsorbs" his sperm.

"I believe that semen has a lot of nutrition," Reid says.  "A tablespoon of semen has your equivalent of steak, eggs, lemons, and oranges.  I am reabsorbing it into my body and it makes me go raaaaah."

So let me see if I understand this.  Alex Reid is training for a fight, and he has two choices for dinner.  On the one hand, he has a large steak, a cheese omelette, orange slices and a glass of lemonade.  On the other hand, he has a shot glass of his homemade man chowder.  He's saying this is an equal choice?  Call me crazy, but why not just eat the steak and eggs?

But hey, maybe that's why I'm not a cage fighter.

Please tell me Alex Reid didn't lose to THIS Tom Watson.

You'd think that with such an unorthodox training diet, Reid must be seeing some outstanding results in the cage, right?  I mean, why "reabsorb" your jizz if it's not actually helping?  But get this.  Alex Reid hasn't won a bout since 2005.  He's had seven fights since then, and he's lost every single one of them.  His lifetime record is eight wins, nine losses, and one draw.  In September, 2010, he lost to a guy named Tom Watson who I'm hoping to God isn't the same Tom Watson who won the 1975 Byron Nelson Golf Classic.

I wonder if his nickname is "The Spermanator".

In addition to being thoroughly grossed-out, scientist John Aplin said sperm can't be reabsorbed.  The little buggers die after a few days, and the nutritional content of the ejaculate is really rather small.  As though that's the only drawback.

You know, now that I think about it, "Knucklehead's Guide to a Healthier Lifestyle" isn't such a bad idea.  Compared to these other diets, a Double-Double couldn't possibly do any harm.

Of course, you'll want to sprinkle some charcoal on it first.

d

I Hate to Sing-a, About the Moon-a or the June-a or the Spring-a

I was a music major in college, jazz studies, if we're going to be specific about it.  My primary (okay, only) instrument was trumpet, but as is the case with all music majors, I had to take methods classes in woodwinds, strings and percussion.  This presented all sorts of problems because as it turns out, the skills required to play the trumpet don't transfer so well to the contra-bassoon, the glockenspiel or the eight-string banjamagoggin[1].  The instrumental method classes were tolerable, though, because even though we sounded like crap when trying to play unfamiliar instruments, everyone was in the same musical predicament.  Trumpet players sounded crappy on clarinet, flute players sounded crappy on violin, and everyone sounded crappy on oboe, because it's impossible NOT to sound crappy on oboe.  Even if you're an oboe player.

There was one class, though, that all the instrumental majors hated with a passion usually reserved for serial killers and game show hosts.  The voice class.  We were instrumentalists, for crying out loud.  Real musicians!  We can't sing, nor do we want to.  But to get a degree in music, everyone has to pass a voice class, no way around it.  Thankfully, and probably so the voice majors wouldn't have to listen to us, there was a class called "Vocal Methods for Instrumental Majors".  A more accurate title might have been, "You Don't Want to Be Here, We Don't Want You Here, But it's a Requirement So Let's Make the Best of It 101".

In a voice class full of nothing but instrumental majors, there's no pressure at all.  Since everyone sucks to the same degree, there's no need to feel ashamed of your lack of vocal prowess.  If anything, stepping out of one's comfort zone creates a certain camaraderie, and going through this experience together helps forge a common bond, which makes the whole process a hell of a lot of fun.

But I wouldn't know anything about that, because I didn't enroll in "Vocal Methods for Instrumental Majors."  You see, due to a scheduling conflict, I had to take an English Composition course that met at the exact same time as the voice class.  To meet the voice requirement for my major, the dean of the music department allowed me to take a different class.

Vocal Methods for Voice Majors.

So the first day of class, there I was, a jazz trumpet player who hadn't sung in public since my first grade Christmas performance (Twelve Days of Christmas, I was a French hen) in a classroom full of collegiate-level opera divas, Madrigal singers, and up-and-coming Broadway stars.  I didn't want to draw attention to myself, so I resisted the urge to stand up and say something like "Okay, listen up, songbirds!  I'm not a singer, I just need to meet the course requirement.  Just bear with me, let me get my C-minus, and I'll be out of your lives forever!"  Instead, I tried to keep a low profile.

But the truth was bound to come out eventually.

The class met three times a week.  On Monday, we'd select our song and work on it individually.  On Wednesday, the pianist would be available to coach us and provide accompaniment.  Friday, of course, was "recital day," the highlight of the week when we'd all go over to the Harriet and Charles Luckman Fine Arts Center and perform our song for the class and other guests.

I knew I was in trouble the very first Friday.

The students, all thirty of us, entered the palatial music hall and took our seats in the first couple rows.  Much to my horror, about fifty other students had also stopped by to check out the recital.  It was the instrumental majors, who were just dying to see me make a complete and utter mezzo-idiot of myself in public.

The pianist took her seat at the Steinway baby grand and Dr. LaFontaine, the instructor, welcomed the audience and got the performance underway.  "Okay, would anyone like to volunteer to open the show?" she asked.

"I'll go first," said one of the tenors.  I think his name was Luciano.  Or Placido.  Something Italian and snooty-sounding.  He was wearing slacks, a tuxedo shirt, and a black blazer.  With a bow tie.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending tonight's performance," he said, even though it was 1:00 in the afternoon.  "I'll be performing Puccini's Che Gelida Manina, from La Boheme."

It was beautiful.  Fluid melodic passages, crisp arpeggios, sustained delicate high notes that resonated in the deepest corners of the concert hall.  When he stopped singing, his voice bounced around for an extra two minutes.

Next up was a soprano named Suzanna Van Horne who, in addition to being a talented opera singer attending college on a full music scholarship, spent her evenings rehearsing with a Los Angeles theater company.  She had recently been cast in the role of Maria in their production of West Side Story.

The chick had pipes, is what I'm saying.

She took the stage wearing a gorgeous black dress.  Floor length.  Spaghetti straps.  Cleavage.

"I'll be performing Un Bel Di Vedremo, from Madame Butterfly," she announced.

If anything, Suzanna's performance was even better than Luciano's.  Her upper register was perfectly in tune, her phrasing was precise and natural, quite simply, she was magnificent.  At the conclusion of her performance, the audience gave her a standing ovation, as they should have.  Clearly, no one in the class had talent remotely resembling that displayed by the lovely Miss Suzanna Van Horne.

But wait.  The next singer was taking the stage.

 It was a guy named Chris, a trumpet player who clearly had no business being at this recital.

I took the stage in my classy performance attire.  Jeans by Levi.  Shoes by Reebok.  Sweatshirt by Laundry Basket.

The instrumental majors gave me an enthusiastic welcome as I dragged my ass to center stage.

"Hi.  I'm Chris.  I'll, uh, be performing a song entitled You Are My Sunshine.  You might remember it from a French's mustard commercial in the 1970's."

Snickers from the audience.

The pianist played the introduction, and we were off.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.  You make me happeeeee, when skies are gray . . . "

My voice crackled like bacon, frying in the pan.  Most of the notes came within a half-step or so of what was written on the page.  I remembered most of the words.  When the song mercifully ended, the crowd gave me a heart-felt sitting ovation.  "Smattering applause" is the phrase that comes to mind.

As the semester progressed, to the surprise of everyone, my vocal talent gradually improved.  In sixteen short weeks, I went from "completely sucks" to "not entirely unlistenable".  And to be honest, the vocal majors were very understanding of my situation and encouraged me to do the best I could.  No one booed, anyway.

Besides, sooner or later Suzanna Van Horne and Luciano the Tenor were going to have to take the brass methods class.  And playing the tuba is much harder than it looks.


[1] Thanks to Homemaker Man for the term "banjamagoggin".



d

Sit By Me (A Parody)

One of my favorite Stephen King stories is "The Body", which was originally published in "Different Seasons" -- a collection of four novellas.  This story of four boys coming of age in the early 1960's was the source for the outstanding motion picture "Stand By Me".  I have to wonder, though, how this story might have been different had it taken place in 2011 . . . 

We had a garage that my father converted into a really nice game room.  My friends came over all the time, a group of about four or five steady guys and a handful of other douchebags who just hung around from time to time.  We'd let them come over when we were having a kick-ass Halo tournament or something.  Most of the time, though, it'd be a few of us chilling after school and on weekends playing Madden, Call of Duty, or Guitar Hero on my X-Box 360.

The set up in the garage was awesome.  Two comfortable-but-beat-up couches, a recliner, and eight or so throw pillows where we could flop down in front of the Sony 47-inch flat screen.  There was a fridge in the corner that mom always kept stocked with Dr. Pepper and Coke, and even a few bottles of Arrowhead water in case Billy Greer showed up.  We never knew why, but Billy hated soda.  Some dudes are just weird.

Teddy and Chris and I were in the garage on that Friday morning, bitching about school starting up soon and playing a two-on-one game of Madden '10.  I was the Jets, Teddy and Chris joined forces as the friggin' New England Patriots.  Mom had just brought in a fresh bowl of popcorn, and we'd helped ourselves to another round of sodas.  On the screen, my Jets had a first and goal at the Pats' three, ready to tie the game before halftime.  I called a safe running play up the middle, Sanchez handing off to Greene.

"FUMBLE!" shouted Chris.

"Our ball, our ball!  Gordie's Jets just screwed the pooch and drug their sorry asses to the sideline," Teddy howled and then gave out with his patented Teddy Duchamp laugh -- Eeeee-eee-eee, like the sirens in True Crime: Streets of L.A.  Teddy was a strange kid, no question.  He was almost thirteen like the rest of us, but his thick glasses and the ridiculous plaid shirts he always wore made him look like someone's grandfather.  Teddy lived with his mom and a seemingly endless parade of "step-dads" although no one could remember him talking about his mom actually getting remarried.  Every now and then she'd hook up with some asshole who'd try to "teach that punk Teddy some manners" and smack him around a bit.  Teddy would take off and spend the night at my house, or maybe over at Chris's, until things cooled down or, more likely, his mom sent the bastard packing.

He was the dumbest guy we hung around with, I guess, and crazy.  He'd do the craziest things you could think of without even thinking twice about it.  Like when everyone and their brother thought it was cool to put Mentos in a bottle of soda and watch it erupt all over the place, Teddy had to take it a step further.  We were in his living room watching Jackass: The Movie and without any warning he went to the kitchen and got a two-liter of Coke and a pack of Mentos.  He brought it all into the living room and told us he was going to drop in the candy and chug the soda like you'd shotgun a beer.  Sure enough, he wrapped his lips around the bottle opening, and before anyone really knew what was happening, Coke was spurting out of Teddy's nose and the corners of his mouth, basically spraying everywhere.  And you know what Numb-nuts did?  He gripped the bottle tighter and kept gagging and leaking all over the place. Damn fool nearly drowned himself.  When his step-dad-of-the-month got home and saw the living room carpet, Teddy got an ass-whipping for his trouble.  This time, his mother was fine with it.

"First down, Patriots, eeee-eee-eee!"

"Shit," I said, as my defense took the field.  There was only about a minute left in the first half, so Teddy and Chris didn't have much of a chance to capitalize on the Greene fumble.  They tried a couple of desperation passes without any success and the half ended with me still down by seven.  My cell phone beeped with a text message.

DUDE ITS VERN LET ME IN

I hit the button to open the garage door and as it rumbled up, Vern Tessio, one of the other regulars, bounced in.  He was sweating like a pig, his Green Day t-shirt completely soaked and his hair matted down like he'd just stepped out of the shower.

"Holy crap, guys, wait'll you hear this."

"Hear what?" I asked.

"Lemme get my breath.  I ran all the way from my house."

"I ran, I ran so far a-waaaaaaay," Teddy sang out.  We looked at him like he was nuts.

"What the hell song is that?" asked Chris.

"I Ran.  Flock of Seagulls?"  said Teddy.

"Who are the Flock of Seagulls?" I asked.

"Eighties band, lead singer had a weird hair-do that looked like a bird."

"Never heard of them."

"My mom loves that shit," said Teddy.

"Uh, excuse me, guys," said Vern.  "You wanna hear this or what?"

"Sorry Vern," said Chris.  "Go ahead."

"Can you guys camp out tonight?"  Vern was looking at us with anticipation.  See, Vern was kind of new to the neighborhood, he'd only lived here about a year or so.  His family moved to Castle Rock from somewhere in the mid-west, Illinois or Indiana, I think.  Vern's family didn't have much money, so he didn't grow up with video games or electronic gadgets.  In fact, the rest of us thought it was a damn miracle that his folks broke down and bought him his piece of crap Nokia cell phone.  He was always making lame suggestions like "Let's go out and play some Wiffle Ball," whatever that is, or "What do you guys think about riding bikes down to the river and doing a little fishing?"  Right.  When we've got X-Box 360 and all the snacks we can eat, right here in my garage?  I don't think so, pal.

"Camp out?" said Chris.  "You mean like in an RV or something?"

"No, dumbass, we'll get some sleeping bags and camp out under the stars."

"I'm gonna have to pass," said Teddy.  "I can't sleep without my memory foam mattress and pillow."

"Yeah, Vern, I don't think so either," I said.  "I'm allergic to bug bites."

Seriously, if I asked my folks if I could take a sleeping bag, which I don't even own in the first place, and sleep outside all night, they'd probably have a collective brain aneurysm.  My father's idea of roughing it is staying in a hotel that doesn't offer 24-hour room service.  Vern looked disappointed, but what are you gonna do?

"Okay, time for the second half kickoff," said Chris.

Vern stood behind us and watched as I guided Jets' kick returner Brad Smith through the Patriots' coverage team, scoring an amazing 97-yard touchdown to tie the game.

Right in the middle of my celebratory touchdown dance, Vern Tessio said: "You guys want to go see a dead body?"

Everybody stopped.  Chris, Teddy and I all looked at each other, absorbing the impact of what Vern had just said.

"Nah."

We handed Vern a controller, he shrugged his shoulders and joined in the game.

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Round three of Knucklehead's Blog-Off 2011 continues through Wednesday this week.  For links to the contestants' entries and the voting ballot, see the sidebar to your right.

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Saving Private Raggedy Andy

"Okay, runts, get off the field. We got a buncha guys comin' to play ball," said Dave Brooks, a 16 year-old baseball star at the local high school. A big kid.

"Why don't you make us?" threatened Mike the Whip. Mike was fearless. Unfortunately, he was also ten.

"Yeah, okay, right." said Dave. He was pretty cool, and more tolerant of little kids than most of his peers. He had seven younger brothers and sisters, so that helped. "You can watch if you want, but it's gonna be mostly guys from the high school team. You'd just strike out anyway, right?"

"That sucks," said Robbie. "We were here first."

"I'll pitch to you guys tomorrow, how 'bout that?" offered Dave.

"I guess," I said.

Robbie, Mike the Whip and I headed off the field. Sweaty, pissed off, and now bored.

"Hey, let's go check out the factory," said Robbie.

Back in the 50's, the Knickerbocker Toy Factory was the center of the doll-and-stuffed-animal universe. Located in my hometown, right behind the ball field, Knickerbocker was the birthplace of teddy bears, cuddly stuffed dogs, and of course, their trademark Raggedy Anns and Andys. So beloved were the dolls that kids in the neighborhood would periodically check the trash dumpsters behind the factory, hoping to adopt a “factory-second” reject with a crooked eye or a slightly torn belly. Knickerbocker would never send out a defective doll, of course, but Second Hand Andy could surely find a home somewhere.

Joy was joy, it didn't have to be fancy or expensive.

For twenty years, the Knickerbocker Toy Factory served as a modern-day North Pole, with its 200 or so employees functioning as hard-working elves, providing hand-stitched companions for children of that generation. To my parents, my aunts and uncles, Raggedy Ann and Andy were cultural icons.

But times changed.

Along came the 70's and with this new decade came the invasion of the video games. My generation ditched our dolls in favor of Atari systems, parked our Tonka Trucks and clicked on our spiffy hand-held Coleco football games.

The Knickerbocker factory closed down. The building remained, but the only inhabitants were the cloth-and-yarn ghosts of Christmases that never came. All that was left was an empty shell, abandoned and alone, left to gather dust.

Until that summer morning when Robbie, Mike the Whip and I declared war on it.

We snuck in through the delivery bay, and invaded the abandoned Knickerbocker warehouse. Illuminated only by indirect sunlight and smelling vaguely of mildew and wet cardboard, the room was a battleground, ours to conquer. We surveyed the terrain. Bare light bulbs in sockets on the ceiling. Boxes with the faded Knickerbocker logo, half full of dusty buttons and faded yarn. A stack of rotting wooden pallets. Broken cinder blocks piled in the corner.

We’d stumbled upon a makeshift ammunition bunker.

It was Mike the Whip who thought of it first.

"Ya dare me to take out one of the light bulbs with a cinder block?"

Of course we dared him.

Mike picked up a softball-sized hunk of rock, pulled the imaginary pin, and hurled the block-grenade upward, shattering a bulb and thunking down on the floor.

"Awright, I'm next," I said. I picked up a chunk. Reared back. Missed. Dammit.

"Hey, maybe if we stack some pallets and stand on 'em, it'll be easier," suggested Robbie.

"You guys are pussies. I threw mine from the ground."

"Just shut up and help us, Mike."

For the next ten minutes, it was "bombs away".

Pop! Light bulb.

Bam! Floor.

Flash Pop! Light bulb.

Ka-thunk! Floor.

When our arsenal started running low, I hopped down to retrieve the rocks for another round while Robbie and Mike continued their assault upon the light brigade.

As I walked toward the stones scattered in the "landing zone", I remember thinking, Ya know, this might be a little dangerous. I turned around, intending to yell, "Hey, you guys, stop for a minute! I'm getting more rocks!"

I made it to "Hey, you g -"

KA-DONK!

I was on the ground, head throbbing, my face, shirt, and the floor around me covered in blood.

"Shit, Robbie! You hit him!"

"I dint mean it! I dint even see him over there!"

Panicked by the bloody carnage, they each took an arm and stood me up, and headed toward my house. We got the attention of the high school guys on the baseball field.

"Holy crap, guys, hold up! That kid's bleeding to death!"

A couple of the teenagers came running over to help. Dave Brooks scooped me up and carried me to my house. In the distance, I saw my mom sitting on our front porch. I'd imagine her thoughts were something along the line of, "Poor idiot kid, cracked his head open."

As we got closer, and she saw that it was HER idiot kid, she flipped out.

"WHAT HAPPENED? WHAT WERE YOU GUYS DOING? OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD!"

"Calm down, ma'am, we got him. Why don't you go get a rag or something?" said Dave, as he set me down on the porch steps.

Mom, however, had already bolted into the house, and practically tore the screen door off when she returned with a wet towel. She was completely falling apart. Amazing how four years of nursing school seems to vanish when your kid is the patient. The cut was only a half-inch or so long, but it was deep. I kept the towel on my head as Mom flung me into the car and burned rubber, off to Somerset Hospital. Along the way, she debriefed me on the cause of my battle wound.

There's nothing quite like the look on a mother's face at that precise moment when she realizes she's raised a dipshit.

Mom hustled me into the emergency room, checked in, and we waited for my turn with the doctor. I noticed a girl, about five years old, who had obviously been crying. She was sitting in a wheelchair with her leg elevated and packed in ice. A broken leg, perhaps, or maybe a badly sprained ankle. She was being comforted by a well-traveled Raggedy Ann.

One of the last hand-me-down refugees from the Knickerbocker Toy Factory.

Still somewhat in a daze, and my vision blurry, I looked Raggedy Ann squarely in the buttonish eyes.

I swear, she winked at me.




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How Much Does a Bat Cost?

Good news for all of you out there on death row, it seems that America's execution rate is dropping due to a shortage of sodium thiopental, one of the drugs administered during lethal injections.  According to the Death Penalty Information Center ("Hello, this is the Grim Reaper, how may we kill you today?"), executions decreased twelve percent in 2010.  Texas of course led the nation with seventeen state-sanctioned whackings, followed by Florida, Mississippi, Alabama, and a first time member of the Execution Club, Alaska who sentenced two whale poachers to death-by-freezing.

According to Richard Dieter, the DPIC's executive director, "Whether it's concerns about the high costs of the death penalty at a time when budgets are being slashed, the risks of executing the innocent, unfairness, or other reasons, the nation continued to move away from the death penalty."

Executions were postponed or canceled in five states due to the sodium thiopental shortage, leading disgruntled inmates to complain about the inconvenience of having to adjust their personal calendars accordingly.  Convicted murderer/rapist William Michael "The Richmond Ripper" McFarland said, "Ya just can't count on the prison system for anything these days.  First, they go and drop the Discovery Channel from the cable programming, then they change from Coke to Pepsi in the cafeteria, and now my Goddamn execution gets canceled?  I'd already sent out the invitations and hired a DJ.  Someone better reimburse me for the tuxedo rental, or I'm liable to lose my temper.  And who knows what that could lead to, ya know?"

Since everyone seems to be overlooking the obvious here, I may as well ask the question myself.  If sodium thipental is so dang expensive, why don't we come up with a cheaper way of executing these scumbags?  Murderers don't seem to have a problem financing their operation, even those who don't have a huge sum of money left over from their career in the NFL, royalties from Hertz Rental Car commercials, and from appearing in the movie The Naked Gun.  If serial killers can finance their brutality on the cheap, why shouldn't the government?  Even if we still want to use lethal injections, who says it has to be sodium thipental in the syringe?  Why not use plain ol' gasoline?  I'm sure a healthy dose of Chevron super unleaded in the bloodstream would do the trick. 

Here's another idea.  What about arranging an execution so the killer dies by whatever method he used to murder his victims?  Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, fifty-seven stab wounds and defiling of the corpse for fifty-seven stab wounds, etc., etc.  Knives are cheap, you can get a complete set for $29.95 by calling 1-800-44-GINSU and if you act now, you'll get a second set absolutely free.  That's much cheaper than sodium whatever-it-is and twice the fun.

Whatever it takes, we need to reverse this downward trend and get the execution rate back up where it belongs.

The folks in Texas are getting antsy.


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What Ever Happened To . . . Speed Racer?

By the time Speed Racer was five years old, he was already an accomplished go-kart racer.  He also had quite the knack for making exquisite pottery, however, that was a skill that was looked upon with disdain by his father Pops Racer.  When Speed turned fourteen, to appease his dad, he sold his potter's wheel and kiln in order to purchase a kit for a kick-ass Ferrari 250 Testarossa.

Speed joined the Ameri-National Racing Circuit in 1988 at the age of eighteen.  Over the next fifteen years, under the guidance of his crew chief Sparky and with the able assistance of pit crew members Spritle and his chimpanzee Chim-Chim, Speed won twelve circuit championships and became known as one of the great racers of all time.  His Ferrari, also known as the Mach Five, was equipped with all sorts of special gadgets, including auto jacks, cutter blades, belt tires, and the much-admired "frogger mode" which allowed the Mach Five to leap over obstacles and opposing drivers.  These modifications, while not specifically banned by the ANRC, fell within a certain "gray area" and as a result, the other race teams had little respect for Speed and often made a point of trying to take him out of races with aggressive driving or by kidnapping his girlfriend Trixie.  Whatever worked.

By 2003, Speed had become bored with the ANRC, and was quoted in Auto Racing Digest saying, "I think I've achieved all I can at this level.  I mean, I've won twelve straight titles, set seventeen track records, what else is there to prove?  I think Sparky and I, and the rest of the Racer Motors team, need to find out what we can do on a bigger stage."

So in 2004, Speed Racer joined the NASCAR circuit, taking over the Hendrick Motorsports #5 car.  Owner Rick Hendrick said at the time,  "We're thrilled to have Speed Racer aboard.  We've been aware of his career for several years now, and having a kid with this kind of talent is something we're all excited about.  We're going to let him stick with Sparky as his crew chief and we look forward to seeing what both of them can do in the Nextel Cup (now Sprint Cup) Series."

Speed takes out the field at Daytona

As it turned out, Speed wasn't quite as talented as everyone at Hendrick had been led to believe.  Since the Mach Five did not meet any of the specifications required by NASCAR, Speed had to drive one of Hendrick's Chevys and this presented some problems.  Speed had come to depend on the Mach Five's special features to get out of trouble on the race track, and as a result, his driving skills weren't up to par with the other drivers.  No longer able to press a button and vault over the opposition, Speed caused numerous wrecks, and gained a reputation as a dangerously aggressive driver.

According to NASCAR veteran Mark Martin, "This guy is gonna kill somebody if he doesn't get his act together.  Don't misunderstand, I like the kid, but where did he learn to drive a race car?  He's hitting everything out there -- other cars, the wall, heck, at Dover he took out two concession stands and an RV.  He's gonna have to figure this out pretty quick or there's gonna be some problems."

Speed crashes at Talladega, 2004

During the 2004 Nextel Cup season, Speed did not finish 33 of the 36 races.  Twenty of his DNF's were due to wrecks, twelve were caused by engine failure, and in one race Speed fell thirty laps behind and simply drove the #5 car off the track mid-race and went to Burger King.

Losing wasn't a concept that Speed and Sparky were familiar with, nor was it something they were willing to accept.  Their frustration came to a head at the 2005 Daytona 500, when Sparky decided to modify Speed's #5 car with all the old Mach Five accoutrements.  Cutter blades, frogger mode, and as a new touch, twin rocket launchers mounted under the splitter on the front end.  Speed kept the Kellogg's car in the top ten for most of the afternoon, and late in the race he vaulted over Tony Stewart's Home Depot Chevrolet and Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s #8 Budweiser car to take over second place.  Late in the race, he made his move.

Johnson escapes after Speed's missile hits the 48 car.

With ten laps to go in the race, Speed's Hendrick Motorsports teammate Jimmie Johnson had the lead but Speed closed the gap quickly.  The two drivers battled it out with Speed threatening but unable to get by the savvy Johnson.  When the white flag came out signaling the final lap, Speed dropped back about six car lengths and activated the rocket launcher.  As Johnson entered turn two, his #48 Lowe's Chevrolet was struck by a rocket, causing the rear end of the vehicle to burst into flame.  Johnson managed to escape the vehicle without injury, but his chance of victory had gone up in smoke.  Speed Racer took the checkered flag but was immediately disqualified and permanently banned from NASCAR.  Not only that, when Speed pulled into his pit stall after the race, he was met by Jimmie Johnson's entire pit crew who beat the shit out of him with an assortment of lug wrenches and power tools, removed both of Speed's nipples via air-powered impact wrench, and Johnson himself cracked Speed in the jaw with a rubber mallet normally used to repair dented fenders.  Later, in the emergency room, doctors removed eight lug nuts from Speed's rectal cavity.

He was blackballed by the entire racing community.

In 2010, ESPN featured Speed Racer on an installment of their investigative series "Outside the Lines".  Here is a partial transcript of Bob Ley's interview with the beleaguered driver: 

Bob Ley: Speed, what events led to the unfortunate incident at the 2005 Daytona 500?

Speed Racer: It was a lot of things, but mostly an inability to cope with failure.  I grew up in the shadow of my brother Rex, but in spite of that I had a lot of success early on.  NASCAR was supposed to be a chance for me to blossom, and really make a name for myself.  But I lost, I lost a lot.  Without the Mach Five, I was nothing.  It was hard to handle.

Bob Ley:  NASCAR is a big step for any driver, no one has success immediately.  Most young drivers take time to get acclimated to the higher level of competition.  It seemed like you and your team expected to win right away, and when you didn't, you resorted to -- for lack of a better word -- cheating.

Speed Racer: What, like Jimmie Johnson and his crew chief Chad Knaus never cheated?  Knaus got suspended for four races not too long ago for illegal modifications to the 48 car.  Everybody tries to get an edge.

Bob Ley:  Knaus was suspended because the 48 car didn't meet the specs in a post-race inspection.  That's a little bit different than having rocket launchers installed, wouldn't you say?[1]

Speed Racer: You say tomato . . .

In July 2010, Speed Racer moved to Houston and opened a car dealership called Racer Hyundai.  His wife Trixie works in sales, and Sparky manages the parts department.


[1] For the record, Chad Knaus himself never complained about Speed's tactics.  In fact, not too long after the 2005 Daytona incident, Knaus was seen trying to attach similar rocket launchers to the 48 car.  Owner Rick Hendrick talked him out of it.


Knucklehead's Blog-Off 2011 Round One voting continues through Wednesday, January 12th.  Click here for details, and cast your vote over in my sidebar.  Thanks!

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