In life, one could divide people into two categories, the Ernies and the Berts.My dad is a real Berty Bert and I am such an Ernie, I even have an Ernie laugh.
The result of this combination? I have a lot of stories to share here that could start with the title, "Poor Dad."
The one I will tell tonight happened when I was in eighth grade.
It was a pretty normal school day, except that my dad was going to pick me up for a dental appointment or something mundane like that. At the time, I attended a school that was designed in a classical California school architecture that emphasizes outdoor space. This meant that the student body ate lunch outside on the quad. When my dad showed up, he had to walk through the quad to get to the main office to check me out of school. The poor Bert thought it would be funny to walk up behind me and say hi. And what is the cardinal rule of Bert and Ernie? Ernie always plays the funny guy against the straight man. Berts like my dad should never try to upstage and Ernie.
So when Dad tried to play sneaky by walking up behind me where I was sitting with my friends and put his hand on my shoulder, I turned to look at him and yelled, "Aaahhh! I don't know who you are!" and ran away.
When I was a safe distance, I looked back to see a swarm of school security people swarming in on poor ol' Dad, and I noticed something. My dad has the most piercing, I-am-gonna-kill-you-when-we-get-home blue eyes.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
How to Keep Your Sisters Out of Your Room
I grew up with three sisters, one older and two younger. Until I was thirteen, we lived with our parents in a three bedroom house. This meant that the girls shared a crowded room with each other and I had my own room, mostly.
The thing was, my mom decided that with this inequitable division of bedroom real estate, my younger sisters' toys should be kept in my room on a set of nearly wall-to-wall shelves.
What I thought was going to be cool, turned to be a coodie infested nightmare filled with Barbies and Cabbage Patch Dolls. I had to come up with a way to keep those yucky girls out of my room despite the strong allure of toys calling out to be played with.
Fortunately, there lived in the corner of my room a large wolf spider. Mom could either not reach it or could not see it, and I did not care.
It was simple really. I just pointed out the spider and told my impressionable little sisters that I had gotten the spider to obey me by feeding it my own blood and that I had trained that spider to attack anyone that came into the room without the secret sign.
Wow, it is amazing how easy it was to convince them; they lived in fear of that spider for years, and to this day, it is hard to convince them that I had made the whole thing up.
Moral of the story? Younger siblings will believe almost anything, and it pays to not be too fastidious with the corners.
The thing was, my mom decided that with this inequitable division of bedroom real estate, my younger sisters' toys should be kept in my room on a set of nearly wall-to-wall shelves.
What I thought was going to be cool, turned to be a coodie infested nightmare filled with Barbies and Cabbage Patch Dolls. I had to come up with a way to keep those yucky girls out of my room despite the strong allure of toys calling out to be played with.
Fortunately, there lived in the corner of my room a large wolf spider. Mom could either not reach it or could not see it, and I did not care.
It was simple really. I just pointed out the spider and told my impressionable little sisters that I had gotten the spider to obey me by feeding it my own blood and that I had trained that spider to attack anyone that came into the room without the secret sign.
Wow, it is amazing how easy it was to convince them; they lived in fear of that spider for years, and to this day, it is hard to convince them that I had made the whole thing up.
Moral of the story? Younger siblings will believe almost anything, and it pays to not be too fastidious with the corners.
Meatloaf Man
It was the winter of 1991. I woke up hungry, and felt both a bit artistic and cannibalistic. Hence the creation.
Ask me now what I think of MEATLOAF MAN and I will tell you, he's a bit silly. But had you asked me what I thought of him then?
He was delicious!
Friday, September 24, 2010
A Story About Making Friends
In 1985, in the summer just prior to my 13th birthday, my family moved from the home my parents had built out in the country to a house in town. As you can imagine, it was a real adjustment, a new life with sidewalks and streetlights, a new school, and a need to make new friends.
Luckily, it turned out that just down the street there lived a great kid named Preston who was just a year older than me. One summer morning, just weeks after I moved in, Preston showed up with a couple of other guys that also lived nearby that would be in our same church group named Ben and Tim.
When they came by, I was out front fixing my bike. Like Preston, I had known Ben for several years through Cub Scouts, and we began talking about past adventures at day camp and the like. But this Tim guy was new to me, and at that moment, I was not too sure about him. I continued to work on the bike and as we were chatting, my older sister, acutely suffering from summer boredom in a new home, began to watch us from the large front window.
Tim was the first to notice her. Almost immediately, and kind of quietly, Tim began to sing, "How Much is That Doggie in the Window?" Now, when he began doing this, I did not think that there was an actual window or other subject matter that he may have been referring to. Ben, Preston and I looked at Tim and followed his gaze to my sister and began laughing, almost uncontrollably. This really got my sister's teen angst-ridden goat and she practically stormed outside to find out what we were laughing about. Our increase in laughter confirmed to her that she was the butt of the joke and without any further information, she turned on her heels and huffed back into the house.
And that is how Tim instantly became one of my best all-time friends.
Luckily, it turned out that just down the street there lived a great kid named Preston who was just a year older than me. One summer morning, just weeks after I moved in, Preston showed up with a couple of other guys that also lived nearby that would be in our same church group named Ben and Tim.
When they came by, I was out front fixing my bike. Like Preston, I had known Ben for several years through Cub Scouts, and we began talking about past adventures at day camp and the like. But this Tim guy was new to me, and at that moment, I was not too sure about him. I continued to work on the bike and as we were chatting, my older sister, acutely suffering from summer boredom in a new home, began to watch us from the large front window.
Tim was the first to notice her. Almost immediately, and kind of quietly, Tim began to sing, "How Much is That Doggie in the Window?" Now, when he began doing this, I did not think that there was an actual window or other subject matter that he may have been referring to. Ben, Preston and I looked at Tim and followed his gaze to my sister and began laughing, almost uncontrollably. This really got my sister's teen angst-ridden goat and she practically stormed outside to find out what we were laughing about. Our increase in laughter confirmed to her that she was the butt of the joke and without any further information, she turned on her heels and huffed back into the house.
And that is how Tim instantly became one of my best all-time friends.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
When Being Witty Almost Got Me Killed
My previous post dealt with my disconnect from fashion. This story has something to do with that, but more than anything, it is about how saying something witty almost got me killed.
It was 1988 and I was 15. One winter night, I decided to go for a walk. I had this wool poncho made out of an old, green army blanket that I liked to wear on those really chilly 50° California nights. I also wore this knit cap my grandma had knitted me. Yeah, I know, maybe it was not too cool, but it was warm and come on, Grandma made it.
So there I was, walking around in the dark through the gritty underbelly of Vacaville's south-side. I popped into the Round Table pizza to see if anyone I knew was there, and in full disclosure, to use the bathroom. Hanging out front were some gangbangers and their girlfriends.
I am pretty sure that the guys would have left me alone had it not been for those girls. But, guys being guys, they wanted to impress their ladies. As I was leaving the restaurant, one of the guys called out, "Hey, you look like a condom."
As I continued to walk and without skipping a step, I turned around and said back, "I might look like a condom, but you guys are a bunch of big dicks." Yeah, I was a stone-cold killer potty mouth back then.
Well, again, these guys had their girls to impress. They started yelling; I kept walking. They got into their cars and came my way; I started running.
I spent the rest of the night playing cat-and-mouse with these guys until I got to a doughnut shop where a friend was working. From there, I called my sister who came and got me.
Moral of the story? I guess you could take your pick. One moral would be to watch what you wear out in public. Another would be to think before you speak. The moral to the story I prefer, though, is that thinking before you speak, the essence of being witty, is exactly what you do not want to do. Being a smartmouth can get you killed.
It was 1988 and I was 15. One winter night, I decided to go for a walk. I had this wool poncho made out of an old, green army blanket that I liked to wear on those really chilly 50° California nights. I also wore this knit cap my grandma had knitted me. Yeah, I know, maybe it was not too cool, but it was warm and come on, Grandma made it.
So there I was, walking around in the dark through the gritty underbelly of Vacaville's south-side. I popped into the Round Table pizza to see if anyone I knew was there, and in full disclosure, to use the bathroom. Hanging out front were some gangbangers and their girlfriends.
I am pretty sure that the guys would have left me alone had it not been for those girls. But, guys being guys, they wanted to impress their ladies. As I was leaving the restaurant, one of the guys called out, "Hey, you look like a condom."
As I continued to walk and without skipping a step, I turned around and said back, "I might look like a condom, but you guys are a bunch of big dicks." Yeah, I was a stone-cold killer potty mouth back then.
Well, again, these guys had their girls to impress. They started yelling; I kept walking. They got into their cars and came my way; I started running.
I spent the rest of the night playing cat-and-mouse with these guys until I got to a doughnut shop where a friend was working. From there, I called my sister who came and got me.
Moral of the story? I guess you could take your pick. One moral would be to watch what you wear out in public. Another would be to think before you speak. The moral to the story I prefer, though, is that thinking before you speak, the essence of being witty, is exactly what you do not want to do. Being a smartmouth can get you killed.
Why I Have to Watch What I Say
I was a high school English teacher in Modesto, California from 1999 until 2003. During that time, I had a lot of experiences where I learned that it is really important for me to watch what I say.
One of these little life lessons came about in a comment I made about a student's fashion. Somewhere between high school and college, I had lost any smidgen of fashion awareness I may have once had. This led me to be quite surprised to see a girl walking into my classroom on a warm Spring day with a big silk flower coming up from the space between her big toe and the next toe over (What is the toe equivalent a pointy finger, anyway?)
My lack of fashion sense and a significant shift in clothing nomenclature led me to be even more surprise, and quite embarrassed in fact, when I said loudly and in front of a class of teenagers, "Hey, you have a big flower coming up out of your thong."
That was the day I painfully learned that what I used to call thongs are now called flip-flops and that girls who have barely begun to wear bras now wear panties that are barely anything at all.
One of these little life lessons came about in a comment I made about a student's fashion. Somewhere between high school and college, I had lost any smidgen of fashion awareness I may have once had. This led me to be quite surprised to see a girl walking into my classroom on a warm Spring day with a big silk flower coming up from the space between her big toe and the next toe over (What is the toe equivalent a pointy finger, anyway?)
My lack of fashion sense and a significant shift in clothing nomenclature led me to be even more surprise, and quite embarrassed in fact, when I said loudly and in front of a class of teenagers, "Hey, you have a big flower coming up out of your thong."
That was the day I painfully learned that what I used to call thongs are now called flip-flops and that girls who have barely begun to wear bras now wear panties that are barely anything at all.
My Sister's Shampoo
My sister, Becky, is two years older than me. We are great friends now, but as kids, we did not get along. She was bigger and stronger than me for many years and found a lot of opportunities to point that out to me. In short, she was a bully.
As with any bullier/bullied relationship, I , as the bullied, was always trying to find ways to get back at the bully, in this case my sister, in ways that would bring me immense satisfaction while yet at the same time, not give the bully cause to demonstrate their graceful art. The trick was for me to get back at her without her really even knowing about it.
One way I found that was immensely satisfying involved my sister's shampoo. She must have been about twelve years old and I was ten. As an almost teenager, she had convinced my parents into buying her a fancy, brand name shampoo, just for her, while the rest of us made do with the family-sized bottle of V05.
Now, I could tell the rest of this story in a long-drawn out way, but the bottom line is, I peed in her shampoo bottle. Not so much that it would have been an obvious change in the viscosity of her shampoo, but enough to make me smile every time she came out of the bathroom with a swami towel wrapped around her head.
I know, I know, this is some pretty antisocial behavior. Maybe it is even more antisocial that now, nearly thirty years later, I still think it is funny. But I think there is a lesson here that we can all learn from. We should all remember to be nice to others, because you never know who might want to pee in your shampoo bottle.
As with any bullier/bullied relationship, I , as the bullied, was always trying to find ways to get back at the bully, in this case my sister, in ways that would bring me immense satisfaction while yet at the same time, not give the bully cause to demonstrate their graceful art. The trick was for me to get back at her without her really even knowing about it.
One way I found that was immensely satisfying involved my sister's shampoo. She must have been about twelve years old and I was ten. As an almost teenager, she had convinced my parents into buying her a fancy, brand name shampoo, just for her, while the rest of us made do with the family-sized bottle of V05.
Now, I could tell the rest of this story in a long-drawn out way, but the bottom line is, I peed in her shampoo bottle. Not so much that it would have been an obvious change in the viscosity of her shampoo, but enough to make me smile every time she came out of the bathroom with a swami towel wrapped around her head.
I know, I know, this is some pretty antisocial behavior. Maybe it is even more antisocial that now, nearly thirty years later, I still think it is funny. But I think there is a lesson here that we can all learn from. We should all remember to be nice to others, because you never know who might want to pee in your shampoo bottle.
Meeting Jesse Jackson
In 2004 I worked at the University of Chicago. That winter, a friend had arranged for me to pick him up at the University Hospital after his colonoscopy and give him a ride home. At the appointed time, I noticed a larger and more congested crowd than usual at the front entrance of the clinic, so I walked into the main lobby of the clinic from another door. This brought me to the elevators from the opposite side of the main lobby. I noticed that there was some sort of crowd control going on, but it was not in my way and I did not pay much more attention than that.
Well, it turns out that the crowd control and all that was because Jesse Jackson was coming into the building, and his entourage had tried to make his transition from his car to the elevator as smooth as possible. Being the ignorant person that I am, however, I had frustrated that. The timing could not have been more perfect. As I walked up to the elevators, I felt almost lucky to have the doors open right in front of me and have hardly anyone standing in my way. No sooner had I walked into an empty elevator than I was pushed, kind of roughly I would have to say, back against the wall by two guys that were the epitome of stereotypical secret service-type bodyguards. Tall, dark suits, ties, aviator sunglasses, little wire-coiled earphone, menacing looks, the works.
Well, I don't know too many people that like getting pushed, and this certainly got my attention. The push finally got me to take notice of what was going on and in that moment, in walked Jesse Jackson. I never knew it before then, but Jesse is a really tall guy. As he steps in, the two suits stand on either side of him. Now, all of this happened really fast. Jesse had his arms down with his hands clasped at his front and his head down; he clearly did not want to talk or even acknowledge a shmoe like me. And it probably would have been a good idea for me to keep my mouth shut, but the rude shove had gotten me a little riled and I felt it was a perfectly reasonable thing to say something about what had happened.
So, without thinking too much about it, I said, "Hey, there's no reason to Push; we can all rise to the top together."
Jesse, founder of the Rainbow-PUSH Coalition, just shook his head, and his bodyguards increased the intensity of their menacing stares. Luckily, it was a short ride on a fast elevator for me, and I got off before I did anything else particularly stupid.
And that is the story of how I met Jesse Jackson.
Well, it turns out that the crowd control and all that was because Jesse Jackson was coming into the building, and his entourage had tried to make his transition from his car to the elevator as smooth as possible. Being the ignorant person that I am, however, I had frustrated that. The timing could not have been more perfect. As I walked up to the elevators, I felt almost lucky to have the doors open right in front of me and have hardly anyone standing in my way. No sooner had I walked into an empty elevator than I was pushed, kind of roughly I would have to say, back against the wall by two guys that were the epitome of stereotypical secret service-type bodyguards. Tall, dark suits, ties, aviator sunglasses, little wire-coiled earphone, menacing looks, the works.
Well, I don't know too many people that like getting pushed, and this certainly got my attention. The push finally got me to take notice of what was going on and in that moment, in walked Jesse Jackson. I never knew it before then, but Jesse is a really tall guy. As he steps in, the two suits stand on either side of him. Now, all of this happened really fast. Jesse had his arms down with his hands clasped at his front and his head down; he clearly did not want to talk or even acknowledge a shmoe like me. And it probably would have been a good idea for me to keep my mouth shut, but the rude shove had gotten me a little riled and I felt it was a perfectly reasonable thing to say something about what had happened.
So, without thinking too much about it, I said, "Hey, there's no reason to Push; we can all rise to the top together."
Jesse, founder of the Rainbow-PUSH Coalition, just shook his head, and his bodyguards increased the intensity of their menacing stares. Luckily, it was a short ride on a fast elevator for me, and I got off before I did anything else particularly stupid.
And that is the story of how I met Jesse Jackson.
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