K.I.T Stay Cool, Have a great Summer! English would have been so BORING without you!

Special Note:  Today is Abe's 7th birthday.  We are having a party for him tonight, so I knew all week I'd better get this done beforehand.  So the party starts in 32 minutes.  I'm calling this done.

I am mutated.  To what, I know not.  Also, I am talking funny.  Hunger.  Confusion.  Fear.  Pain.  They dominate my being, whatever that is.  With no little effort, I replace these attributes with a simple new one.   Rage.  As I blindly forge through some thick vegetation looking for relief from this nightmare, I become aware of a sharp stinging in my right hand.  It’s as if a thousand needles are piercing flesh and bone.  In an attempt to pull my hand to my face to investigate, I discover myself anchored to the ground by what looks like a thousand tiny barbed needles piercing the flesh and blood of my hand.  The more I struggle to free my hand, the more the pain intensifies.  I begin again to lose composure.  Sweat dripping into my eyes, burning.  I start to panic before I am once again rescued by my only ally; Rage.

With the heat and stench of the vegetation surrounding me, I thrash wildly to free my hand, trying not to consider the resulting mutilation.  As the wicked barbed needles rip free from my hand , I’m surprised to see they are attached to threads that are staked securely to the ground.  Tiny men about the size of a mouse are hammering furiously at the stakes.  Several of the freed needles fall toward the cowering men.  Ignoring the fire in my hand I stalk toward my would-be captors and begin to literally stomp them out, shredding my foot on the fallen needles in the process.  Doh!

Suddenly I realize; these are not tiny men.  I AM A GIANT!

Upon the realization, the pain in my hand subsides.  I look down to watch my hand quickly reassemble itself to its familiar old form.  Mostly human, but with strange green suction cups on the finger tips and the most adorable cuddly fur and retractable claws.   I want to bat some yarn, and I want to bat it now.  My other hand is 100% plain old boring human.  Damn.

Licking my hand/paw to wipe the grime from my sweaty brow, I’m suddenly standing in my studio apartment kitchen area slicing red peppers.  Chelsea walks out from behind the toilet screen (It’s a really small apartment) and comes up from behind kneeing the back of my knees, causing me not to buckle but float mysteriously in the air.   Chelsea is very impressed as I reach for her, but she’s out of range now as I uncontrollably move higher and through the ceiling/floor, I can feel every fiber of my being mix with the construction of the ceiling/floor.  I can tell you with great certainty, it feels pretty weird.  The neighbors in the apartment just above mine give me a look that might be anger or possibly heart attack as they sit, jaws agape, popcorn spilling from their mouths, watching me ascend through yet another ceiling  …

“That should settle him down,” nurse Wimbledon (no relation) was dumping some painkiller stuff into Lenny’s 4 drip.  He had been in a fitful sleep for the last few minutes, obviously in a great deal of pain, but was now starting to calm down.  The 4 drip itself was an invention of Dr Johnson’s.  He felt it was a great improvement on the archaic IV drip.  See what I did there?  Stupid 4^th wall.  Gonna have to get that thing fixed some day.

“Sorry folks.  Just passing through.  The popcorn smells good!” Lenny mumbles as he stirs.  These are the first words, he's spoken in over a week.

Just then, Dr Johnson comes in and smoothly walks across the room to Lenny’s bedside.  Evelyn and Julie, who haven’t left the bedside except to go home and sleep and go to work.  Oh and the occasional movie.  Actually, it was kind of lucky they happened to be there when he came out of his sleep.  They both watched as the Doctor entered, glancing down to verify that he was not on roller skates or something.  “It’s kind of creepy,” Ev whispered to Julie.  Julie gave a subtle nod in response. 

“You want to go get Charlie?” Julie asked.

“Him?  He’s just hanging out by the water fountain waiting for people to take a drink before he asks them questions.  He’s a dummy, but I love him.  Let him have his fun.”

“Miss Johnson,” Dr Johnson began, addressing Julie (Evelyn was Mrs. Johnson), “Would you do me a favor and close the Levolor Brand Blinds?  I think the lower light will be better for your brother at this time.”

Just then, Lenny opened his eyes, “I just had the weirdest dream,” He said.

Seeing Lenny awake was shocking enough for everyone, even before they noticed his eyes.

Evelyn ran out of the room, suppressing a scream until the door to the room was almost halfway closed.

Julie froze, her hand still holding the Levolor Brand blind string in the release position.  “What is wrong with his …”

“Shh,” warned the brilliant good handsome doctor. 

“What’s wrong with my what?” Lenny asked, absentmindedly lapping at an incisor with his scratchy tongue. 

“Don’t mind your sister, She’s just never seen anyone with frog/cat/human hybrid eyes before,”  Johnson reassured Lenny.

“Oh alright.  What?!?”, but when he said “What” It was long and drawn out, starting at a low quiet pitch rising in both volume and cant as the realization set in.  It was actually pretty comical.  I guess you had to be there.

Lenny eyes.  They were green.  The pupils were vertical slits.  Seriously.  Then there was this really gross membrane thing that would come down over his eyes occasionally instead of his now useless eyelids.

“Uh Yes.  Let me explain what I believe happened to you.  Hopefully you can fill in the rest,”  explained Johnson, suppressing a big huge barf.

~~~

“Yeah Crockett – or is it Burnett?  I’m ready,” The boys had noticed the rent-a-pig staring at them from across the parking lot.  And even though, despite appearances, they had done nothing illegal (yet), they were well aware that old rent-a-pigs were often ex-cops who could call in a few favors and get real cops on the scene before you could sing “Love me” by Elvis Presley.

Cube was ready for a night on the town.  After a long week of tanning his upper body at his job in the sun, he had the perfect pastel t-shirt to show it off.  Accenting that tan, was white linen sport jacket, sleeves carefully pushed halfway up his forearm to give the appearance that they were carelessly pushed halfway up his arm.  Showing no mercy on the ladies, he also wore white, sockless deck shoes.  To finish the ensemble, he was sporting a 3 day beard that took him about 9 days to grow.  “If only you had a .45 automatic, you could finish out that look.  Maybe even nab a Cuban drug lord or something.”  Boomer lamented.  

“We’ll see who’s laughing at the end of the night, Paul Bunyan.”

Boomer was also showing off his fabulous upper body tan.  He was wearing a red plaid flannel shirt, and though it was a hot summer night, Boomer was cool, because he had torn the sleeves off the shirt.  His attire was finished off nicely with an old pair of Levi’s and some hiking boots.

“Where you going Boomer?” Cube asked as Boomer started toward the back stairway on the north side of the building, “Let’s go in the west side.  I want to be backlit as I take off my shades and walk into the place.”

“There might, just might be something gayer than that, Cube.  Let me think on it a while.”

"Let's go get some Guinness.  Then let's see if we can't find out where your big fucking blue ox ran off to."

"You leave Babe out of this, Cube, I'm warning you,"  Boomer warned.

Retrospective

"Here he comes," declared Jane, "I swear it looks like he's on a conveyor belt."

Jane was watching the good Dr Johnson approach her little coffee shop.  She wore, as always, her golden uniform, unlit cigarette hanging from her bright red lips.  Pen stashed somewhere up there in that big heap of hair.  Lightly used order pad tucked behind her back held up by her apron strings.  Jane had seen it all and didn’t mind telling everyone all about it.  Folks didn't mind too much though.  Her heart was in the right place.  Or at least that's what everyone thought.  See Jane had a dark secr ...

Just then, the tinkling of the bell announced the entrance of Dr Johnson.  "Johnny, my boy!" Jane greeted the ever lovable doctor with feigned admiration and affection.  For you see, it was Jane who ...

"Just coffee this morning Jane.  I've got to get to work," said Johnson, holding up a hand to refuse the plate of hash Jane had already served up.  Good thing too.  Because unbeknownst to anyone, Jane had laced the meal with ...

"Are you sure, hon?  I made this plate special for you.  Don't break my heart again," pleaded Jane all sweet and everything.

"I know, Madge," his joke name for Jane that she pretended to love, but inevitably started a migraine, "And if I could I would.  Tell you what.  I'd love to get it to go.  There's nothing like your grill for me.  You know that."

"Yes, I know," Jane said grimacing, temples clamped tightly between her right thumb and middle finger as she willed the pain down into the recesses of her dark soul ...

"Are you ok, love," The Dr. asked with genuine concern.

"Right as rain, boss.  I just had a little ice cream headache.  All gone now," ensured Jane, dabbing the trickle of blood from her eyes, as she ever so sweetly forced a smile, cracking a few molars in the process.  "Let me get you a doggy bag ..."

“Hey Jane.  I’ve got the weekend free.  What do you say you and me ( I ) go down to fun park Saturday?”

Jane was stunned.  She had at one time loved the doctor with a sick kind of love.  She had fantasized that one day she would be “Mrs. Dr. Johnson (no relation).”  But she knew he was way out of her league.  How could such a wonderful man go for such a lost cause.

“Well, but I think I have to …,” Jane stammered in hot disbelief.

“Just think about it, Madge …,”  lovingly suggested Johnson.  But it came across really douchy.

“Ow, my head,” said Jane, blood escaping from her ears this time.

“Well, let me know,” said the doc, as he left the café unintentionally leaving the doggy bag of poison food.

Ding-a-ling!  Just then a really adorable family of 4 walked in and began to extol one of the presidential candidates. 

“We couldn’t agree more,” said everyone on the café, “Here, have a doggy bag of free food,”  they chimed.

The next Chapter.

A white, smoke filled, 1977 Buick LeSabre sat idling in front of the back entrance of the slick, grease-stained parking lot of Louis’ Bar and Grill.  It was Early Friday evening and already the underaged and low budget crowd were packing the joint. 

“So I says to the guy, ‘Costello is the only true king,’” Boomer squints from inside his father’s sedan, choking down his third LSMFT (Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco). 

“I should punch you myself,” chuckled Cube, “That shit ain’t right,”  searching through the haze for the remains of his soft pack of Camels.  “You know, they have Guinness  in here?”

Now normally, the boys smoked Salem’s (Boomer) and Winston’s(Cube), but while they were at the gas station, Cube told a story about his friend, the big Irish guy who went around talking like a Hollywood style Indian from the 50’s,  who said, “Tobacco never kill white man until after him use filter.”

  “That’s close to the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Boomer said as he approached the counter, “Three packs of Lucky Strike’s, please.  What’ll you have, Cube?”

“Just one pack of Camel no filters for me,”

“You ready to go in Dan?” Cube pleaded.   It had seemed funny at the time.  But looking back, the idea of smoking a pack of cigarettes, in an idling car, windows up, no air conditioning, and 95 degree heat.   Not so funny now.

Chapter so and so.

Jack Hughes spotted the old Buick right away.   He was going in to pick up some gum and cat food (for furball) at Louis market before he reported to his station working security at the Westroads movie theatre.   “Just be cool Jack,”  he told himself.  “Not your problem anymore.”

 

Jack knew if he went over there and tapped on that window, he’d make those stupid kids shit their pants.  

But he wasn’t a cop anymore.  He was just a rent-a-pig.  “Just come in to my movie theatre, boys.  Then we’ll see who has the last laugh.”

“There’s gonna be some bad weeks.  You can’t blame yourself,”  Fred chided

“It’s just that they’ll feel cheated.  And I feel guilty.”  Fred reasoned.

“Of course you’re right.  But is it your fault your sisters came over with a bunch of beer?” Fred countered.

“No, It’s Shim’s fault,”  Fred realized.

A Trailer

A low thumping gradually increases to a heart pounding bass drum beat.  The camera is set low to the ground with bare dirty feet frantically running by from stage right  to left through a lush forest.  The action is feverish and we realize the tribesmen are fleeing some horror.  Then silence.  Black screen.  Now the only sound is some woman singing Aaah - aaah, in some sort of middle eastern sounding tone that denotes either great melodrama or a penchant for Pink Floyd.  We can't be sure.

A flash of light.

Out of the jungle, a business district coffee shop.  A young doctor getting his morning coffee says, "I play for keeps, Janey."  A knowing smile crosses Jane's face.

Cut to extreme closeup of a different man's sweaty sleeping face.  Heavy sad violin music. as the camera moves out and upward, spinning, disorienting us, we see the man is not sleeping.  He's unconscious being rushed  down to emergency surgery by a crack team of interns.  The action is completely in slow motion.  Several shots of various interns concerned faces shouting and pointing as they rush to save this man.

Stop.

More Drumbeat.  Squealing tires as a 1974 Monte Carlo screams around the wet corner of a rain slick inner city road.  Cut to inside the car.  Two dirty unshaven smoking toughs are arguing, "That cat is the answer,"  shouts the driver.  "Just let me out of the car.  Now!"

Silence.  Half second of  Jane and the Dr Johnson screaming with delight as, arms up in the air, they bravely conquer the amusement park roller coaster ride on what appears to be a beautiful sunny day.

War room, Tokyo, 1945,  low ranking official berates General Yazamaka,  "You thought we could
win this war with balloons," as the General solemnly accepts the seppuku from his inferior.

Extreme close up of Dr Johnson his rain drenched face looking down, framed in total darkness.  He's near tears, "It wasn't supposed to go like this Jane.  It was supposed to be amusing"

Stop.

Blackness.  Barely visible characters form.  Still not discernible.  What could they say?  As they brighten on the completely black screen, we realize it is simply a date.  "6-22-2012, (part 1)".

Dramatically fade to black.

The Doctor is in The House

Julie couldn’t believe anyone could survive a fever like this. 

The Doctors had done everything they felt was ethical to try to bring Lenny’s temperature down, but thus far they had had no success.  In fact, several times within the span of an hour, they had misdiagnosed Lenny’s condition and prescribed treatment that nearly proved fatal.  This team was lead by the legendary Dr. Herman Johnson (no relation).  Dr Johnson was unwavering in his disdain for the Hippocratic oath.  “It’s not that I disagree with it.  I would just add the line, “Unless I feel like doing otherwise,” to the end of it.”

His main function as team leader at the big huge hospital job was to, like sit around with his group of interns and teach them how to properly diagnose certain puzzling cases that came through the door.  The interns themselves were among the world’s brightest and most diverse.  There was an Asian girl, an African American guy, an Australian guy, and a cute white girl, and a middle-aged Jewish guy who always cheated on his wife and stuff.  See.  Really diverse.

But it was hardly his brilliance that Dr Johnson was best known for.  It was just that he was so damn likable.  And he had a really smooth walk.  People usually used the word “buttery” upon seeing the smoothness of his gait.  Anyway, head Doctor Johnson (no relation), was totally cool with all of his young upstarts, and was careful to provide a positive experience for them.  Some would have said he was too nice …

Doctor Johnson lived modestly in a shabby little place near the free clinic where he spent a good deal of his free time.  His time at the free clinic had earned him no end of relatively harmless pranks from the neighbor kids.  They loved the good Dr and considered it a tribute to totally screw with him.  He understood their intentions so he didn’t get too shook up about the occasional bucket of dog diarrhea dumped on his porch, etc.

Even though it was 3 miles away, he usually walked to the hospital too.  Particularly when he was mulling over a stumper of a case.  Currently, he was puzzling over an undergrad from the Veterinary school.  The kid was brought in a couple of mornings before.  His right hand had been mangled and burned in some horrible lab accident.  The burns may have saved the kids life.  Or maybe not.  Dr Johnson and his crack team of racially diverse geniuses had no guess as to what could be the cause of the fever.  The symptoms were like nothing he’d ever seen in real life.  They were eerily similar to a paper he had written about a science fiction movie he had seen.  He postulated that the frog DNA introduced into the genome of a dinosaur would certainly cause uncontrollable fever.  The reason, was of course real sciency and certainly beyond the scope of this blog.

This morning was bright and sunny and Johnson had some thinking to do.  Unfortunately, last night some of the neighborhood kids overheard some adults talking about Johnson and got a brilliant idea. Let’s coat his front gate with butter.  Actually, it was margarine, but the result was similar.  As Doctor Johnson was leaving for work, reading his notes on the strange Johnson case, apple in his mouth, he absentmindedly turned to open his gate with his backside, unwittingly smearing margarine all over the back of his trousers. Head in his notes, he almost tripped over the homeless guy, propped up against his fence.

“Sorry Burt, I guess I’m a little distracted.  Didn’t see you down there,“  Dr Johnson apologized.

“No problem Doc, I’ll be movin’ on in a minute, I just needed to rest my dogs a spell,” came the cheery reply of Burt Rasson, an old school mate of Doc Johnson’s. 

When Johnson looked down at the dogs in question, he saw that the soles of Burt’s shoes were more mudcaked skin than shoe leather. 

“Burt.  That reminds me.  I have to get rid of some shoes I bought a while ago.  They’re just too big for me.  Do you know anyone who could use them?”

“Nobody comes to mind,” Burt grinned, revealing a mouthful of gunk that gave a whole new meaning to the word toothpaste.

“Well, if you think of anyone,” Johnson said, “here’s the card to get into my front door.  I’m going to be gone a couple of days.  You just give those shoes to anyone who might need them.  Promise?”

Burt took the credit card like key from Dr Johnson and turned it over and over, confused.  Dr Johnson chuckled, “It’s like they have at the hotels now, Burt.”

“Of course Doc, like the one I have for my room at the Hilton …”

“Take care of yourself Burt.  I’ll see you next week.”  And with that, Herman Johnson began to take his leave.

“One last thing there, Physician …”

“Anything old pal.”

“ I see you still have that same buttery gait,”  Burt noticed.

“Damn kids.  Be careful about that if you go get those shoes,” Doc warned.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about Doc.  But then I didn’t go to college.”

“So long, Burt”

“I may have bigger feet than you, Herman, but you’ve got the biggest heart of anyone I ever knew,”  a tear cutting through a thick layer of disgusting goo on Burt’s sun weathered, scarred up face.

“Don’t mention it Burt.  You know how I feel about it.  I owe you.  I always will.”

True story part 2

Chapter 4,  The Adoption

The Johnson’s (no relation to Lenny) would never forget the day they learned that there was no way in hell they were ever going to have a child the way God intended.  Mr. Johnson had been a real trooper, nailing the good lady Mrs. Johnson quite regularly but to no avail.  It’s not that they really wanted children.  But their stupid friends had convinced them that they would one day regret not having children.  Of course, that was total bullshit.  The friends envied them.  They wanted to see them fall.  One friend, Julie (yeah the same one from my English class), after a particularly disgusting dose of feces spray to the face, decided enough was enough.  

“It’s not fair.  They need to play by the rules.  How can joy be appreciated without misery?” Julie asked no one in particular, stringy greenish mucousy liquid poo dripping from her chin and shiny dark hair.   That’s when Julie and her husband, my friend from school who told her I was married, decided to start bugging the Johnson’s until they agreed to make a human life.

Eventually, they sought professional help cause like Mrs. Johnson wasn’t getting any pregnanter at all.

“You could always adopt,”  Suggested the pregnancy consultation guy.

“Adopt?!?  We want a real kid, not some rent-a-kid!,” Wailed Mrs. Johnson.

“Now Ev, you know I was adopted,” Charlie Johnson spoke gently with a kind of whispery voice that came across all condescending and shit.  In fact, Charlie Johnson was the Charlie McCarthy from my English class.  Ma and Pa Johnson had adopted him after I parted ways with him.

“Here Evelyn, have a glass of water while I talk about options with the consultation guy.” 

“Don’t you condescend toward me you little dummy!  And get the water out of my face,”  Evelyn shouted, wiping tears away.

“Somebody’s pissed,”  Charlie skillfully mumbled out the side of his mouth to the pregnancy dude.

“Well, if there’s nothing else,” Hurried the consultant, “I have my next …”

“There must be something you can do for us, Doc,”  Pleaded Mr. and Mrs. Johnson in unison, prompting a surprise “Jinx you owe me a Coke!” from both of them.

“Well … There is something …  No, never mind,”  replied the Dr. guy, Realizing he had said too much.

“What?  You must tell us,” pleaded Charlie,

“There’s this little cuddowy wuddowy kit’n I know about who needs a good home …”

Chapter 5, Furball’s kind of a dick

Well that was interesting.  Admittedly I’ve left myself in a bit of a pickle.  Not sure why I attacked Lenny.  Maybe I just didn’t want to go in the cage.  But if that were true, I suppose I could have left the lab before tearing his hand all up.  Actually, I could have left without doing anything.  Oh yeah, the dogs.  No way Lenny would have just stood there while I eviscerated every dog in that god-forsaken place.  I like Lenny, except for his stupid soft spot for those ridiculous dogs.  Well, tell me Lenny, or should I say “Lefty” -  How’s that dog thing working out for you?  I kid.  I kid.  Anyway, Lenny’s injuries couldn’t be helped.  At least I was able to stop the bleeding with that Bunsen burner.

What next?  Ooh yuck, is that my image in the plate glass window?  You gotta get cleaned up ol’ furball or nobody’s taking you in.  At least get some of the dog sinew out of your whiskers.    I wonder if that pounding in my head is part of the treatment I was getting for my gum disease.  I wonder if the treatment was over.  I suppose it is now, huh-huh.  Anyway I hope my “ribbit!”  I mean “Meow.”  Woah, I don’t think I’ve ever said “ribbit” before.  Weird.  Now let’s see if we can’t find a nice lily pad and take a little cat nap.

Chapter 6, Lefty

“Why furball why,” Lenny moaned from his deep sleep.  Sweat drenched his hospital bed.  He had been in a slumber since shortly after waking to see a distressed Professor Lincoln (no relation) and his demolished lab.  His sister Julie and her friends the Johnson’s were at his bedside.  Also with the Johnson’s was their latest addition to the family.  Widdow Fuwbaww (translated “Little Furball”).

“I think he’s coming out of it,”  Julie exclaimed.

“You know, I’m gonna take furball outside.  He keeps scratching at me,”  Charlie said While Evelyn drank yet another glass of water.

“Is that the time?”  Fred asked.  “Geez, I’ll have to continue this later.”

Based on a True Story (Part 1)

LINCOLN (AP) — Authorities say a Lincoln man has been accused of poisoning  kittens by pouring antifreeze into their water bowl.

The Lancaster County Sheriff’s Office said John Lenzen, 35, has been cited on suspicion of animal cruelty.

Sheriff Terry Wagner said that, according to investigators, Lenzen had grown tired of the mess the kittens were making on his equipment in a rented bay at a machine shop.

At least one of the kittens has died.

My favorite part of the story is the last line.  It seems like it is saying that there is not less than 1 dead kitten.  But it could actually be saying “John Lenzen’s efforts were not completely in vain.”  

This is why I like the “Based on a True Story” format.  The above story is presumably true.  But it’s not really much to go on for a “Movie of the Week.”  And since I’m shooting for mini-series … Well I’m going to have to take some license.  Oh yeah and also, I don’t really know anything about any of the subject below either.  

But I can say the science stuff is “Based on True Science”

So now I present, “Lenny the Failed Veterinarian, based on a true story”

Chapter One, The Bite

“Well, I guess it can wait until tomorrow.  I’m beat,” Lenny was once again working past midnight in the school science lab.  He was obsessing over his new treatment for his favorite little patient, Furball. 

Lenny Johnson (based on a true name) had always known he’d be a veterinarian.  “Dogs and cats are easy, It is people that suck.”  Pets never say “Keep an eye on your little brother and we’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Only to die in a horrible car accident and never return, leaving you alone, scared and confused into the early morning until the knock at the door …

Lenny’s life was filled with the heartache and loss.  “I can’t help thinking I could have saved them.  If I only knew Dr. Stuff,” Was the single line Lenny wrote on his application to the most prestigious Veterinary School in the country.  He wanted to know it all.  Normally, an application like this would have been flatly rejected.  Honestly, after the interview with the dean, Lenny feared he would be destined to work the rest of his life in his dad’s little machine shop. 

As protocol, all applications to the school from within the state had to be accompanied by an interview, no matter how short.  As Lenny walked into the Dean’s office, he saw the dean was already holding a big red rubber stamp over Lenny’s application.  Lenny could also see the reverse lettering on the bottom of the stamp that said “REJECTED!”  As the stamp swung mercilessly toward the application, Lenny cried out, 

“Please wait!”

“I saw something I hadn’t seen in many years.  Something I thought died from the world eons ago.  A spark that made this tired old man believe again,” was the only explanation Dean Katz (no relation) could give.  He couldn’t  say why he decided to give “the cutter” a chance.  “Don’t make me regret it, kid,” As he welcomed Lenny Johnson with a warm handshake and a slap on the back.

Now in his senior year, Lenny was working on treating a rare form of Feline gum disease.  His subject, Furball had been brought to him after suffering from severely bad breath (even for a cat) and some inflamed gum tissue.  None of the normal treatment had worked.  Furball was initially given an antibiotic rinse and a good cleaning.  If anything, Furball’s symptoms got worse.   Furball was obviously in pain.  Refusing to eat.  Meowing all sad and everything.  

Then came the breakthrough.  

DNA testing had revealed an unexpected sequence in the cat tooth/gum area on the cat genome map thing.  Where GGTTACAAGAC was expected in a healthy cat, was the ominous GGGGCAATATA!  Lenny couldn’t believe it.  This meant that all he’d have to do is mutate Furball’s DNA and he’d be back to healthy cat mouth in no time.  Easier said than done.  Lenny and a couple of his professors at the school had been working on a ways to manipulate the tiny little cat double helices, but until Lenny got the idea from “Jurassic Park” to incorporate frog DNA, the science team had gotten nowhere.

Furball had been put on an extremely experimental DNA treatment for the past 5 days.  After the first 2 shots, his appetite returned.  He was becoming more playful and Lenny couldn’t be more proud.  It looked like everything was going to be al-right.  Of course, only Lenny knew about the treatments.  They were strictly forbidden.  This is why Lenny preferred to do the bulk of his lab work after everyone had left for the day.

But now, with 2AM fast approaching, and a 7AM class, Lenny was forced to call it a night.  As he switched off the light to exit the lab, he glanced over to Furball’s cage to say goodnight and saw the door was standing open.   With a heavy sigh, he turned the light back on and called for Furball.  He must have not quite latched the cage after tonight’s treatment.  “Here kitty kitty kitty …  Here Kitty Ki…”

Along the far wall of the lab was the door for the walk-in freezer.  Resting peacefully atop the door was fuzzy little Furball.  Lenny suppressed a grin at Furball’s amazing cute and cuddliness.  A week ago, there’s no way Furball could have gotten up there, weak from malnourishment.  “Come on fuzzy. Bedtime.”  As he reached up to help his little friend down, Furball’s eyes snapped open as he launched with impossible catlike velocity towards Lenny’s outstretched hand.  Lenny’s confused pause was all the time Furball needed to clamp his new frog fortified jaws into Lenny’s soft fleshy index finger.  The iron strong teeth sank into the bone, furball’s sandpaper tongue lapping for the marrow, Lenny’s very life force itself. 

The pain was worse than he’d ever imagined possible.  He could see nothing but the agony induced white explosions from somewhere deep in his protesting brain.  In his lifetime, He’d suffered Bunson burns, broken bones and killer migraines.  But nothing was close to this kind of pain.  He absently wondered if he could take this pain to the “pain of childbirth” argument.  Desperately thrashing around, Lenny tried to get the cat to release.  He grabbed at the cat’s head with his good arm to swing it and hopefully smash it to death into the Freezer door, but as soon as he touched the silky smooth fur of Furball’s cute little head, he received 8 deep gashes the length of his forearm from Furball’s back claws.  “I knew I should have worn my flannel shirt today,” was Lenny’s last thought before losing consciousness.

Chapter 2, Furball suspects a problem

MOUSE!!  Sweet.  I am so going to get that thing.  Look at this.  That stupid little tasty thing doesn’t even see me yet.  I’ve been approaching it for like 5 minutes and have made so much noise sliding across the floor, I have to believe there’s something wrong with its ears.  One last lick of my teeth to make sure they’re ready and I pounce.  Ow, holy crap!  What the hell?  That really hurts.  Ow.  Seriously!  Every time I touch my tongue to my nice pointy teeth, there’s this terrible pain at the gums.  The gums themselves are all puffy and red.  That can’t be good.  Ok whatever.  Focus.  Come to Furball, little mousy mouse.  There he is!  Pounce!  Oww!!  Crap missed him.  Just that little hesitation, the fear of the pain of biting down is all it took for that stupid little mouse to get free.  I guess I could just go eat the food in my bowl.  Yeah, right.  That dry crunchy crap is way worse.  I’m so hungry, but I just can’t eat.  Hopefully somebody will get worried pretty soon and send me off for highly experimental DNA splicing and testing and stuff.

Chapter 3, Just Because You get bit by a Cat/Frog Hybrid, Don’t think You’re a Superhero.

“Wake up, Lenny.”

“Professor Lincoln (no relation). Where am I?” Lenny was flat on his back being shaken awake by his gross dog anatomy teacher. As consciousness came, he felt the tight throbbing pain in his hand.  Looking up, seeing the sunlight stream in, Lenny began to panic.  “I’ve got to get to class, there’s a …”

“Shhh,”  Professor Lincoln gently pressed the palm of his hand to Lenny’s chest to hold him still.  He didn’t want him to move just yet and he certainly didn’t want him to see his mangled hand.  It looked like it had been sent through a meat grinder.  A mix of flesh, blood and bone twisted beyond recognition.  Link could not explain how it was the boy had not bled out.  Somehow the severed arteries had been cauterized.  The lab was demolished.  All the animals cages were opened and the dogs had been torn to pieces by whatever had gotten to Lenny’s hand.  “What happened here, kid?”

To be continued.  And don't worry.  It's already been written. Seriously.  What?

I can talk about this now

One of the times I went to college (the 2^nd time of 3), I took the prerequisite English class I had tested into.  Incidentally, the awkward form of the opening sentence should serve as a clue to both where I placed and how I did in the class.  I probably should have written something like “One time, in English class …”

It was a composition class so the idea was we had to write stuff.  There were going to be 4 types of composition.  I don’t exactly remember the names of them but I think there was an informative one.  I remember writing about MS-DOS.  I think I got an ‘A’ on that paper.  There was to be a couple of papers where you basically pick a fight, and one that was supposed to be persuasive.  Finally, there was a team paper.  We wrote ours on why televisions should have “V-chips”.  Thrilling stuff. 

The Professor considered himself a very amazing fellow.  He wore a bow tie and had those dark elbow cover things on his brown blazer deal. 

The first thing he tried to get across to us was that great writing was the goal.  He didn’t care if the content was misguided as long as the art itself was sound or some such bullshit.

He spent lots of time explaining that if he suspected we were writing opinions just to line up with his own, it would not go well for us.  If however, we could somehow articulate the contents of our unrefined little souls with a certain degree of skill, boy howdy.

So of course, the first thing everybody (except me) did was try to figure out his opinions and write the opposite.  They didn’t understand that if you disagreed with him, you had to write well.  Silly students.

These lectures about not trying to please him with content went on for – well at least until I was gently prodded awake by Julie.  I was in love with Julie.  I was separated from my first wife and Julie was engaged and had no clue I was in love with her.  But I’m pretty sure she was into me.  The best part about it was that Julie had long dark hair.  My future ex-wife was only jealous of blondes, so.

“Did I miss anything?”  I asked suggestively.

“Besides the drool running down the side of your chin?” said Julie, obviously captivated by my sleepy bedroom eyes.

“Yeah – I mean, did he get past not writing to please him,” I explained, subtly flexing my muscles inside my nice cozy parka as I gracefully wiped my face dry.

“Next lecture.  He’s going to talk about the forbidden 3 topics,” she trailed off, distracted by my biceps.

“What? like the joy of incest or something,” oops, must have touched a nerve.

“Ewww.  Are you going to show me how to send email or not,” She flirted.

“Oh yeah, probably your place will work best,” I suggested, perhaps revealing my hand a bit too much.

“Except I don’t have a computer, it’s 1993, not 2010, and the computer lab is right downstairs.  And my boyfriend will kick your ass.”

“But the computer lab in this building sucks.  Let’s go to Durham.  And seriously, let me carry your bag.”

“You’re such a creep,” she assured me.

So anyway, it ended with Julie a few months later and before it actually started because of my good conservative friend who did not know my wife, but thought it was wrong for me to be traipsing around with Julie even though I was separated.  He told her I was happily married.  I never saw her again.  Thanks Kevin. 

To his credit, once he did actually get to know my ex, he apologized for messing it up between me and Julie.  Good Friend.

So where was I?  Oh yeah.  The next week of English class was about the “Forbidden Three” topics.  The class was 75 minutes long twice a week.  The gist of the message was “Don’t write about Abortion, Gun Control or the Death Penalty.”

To me, that’s a 5 second lecture, not a two part 2.5 hour lecture.  But he really wanted to be quite clear that he did not want to read any more papers on those three topics and the topics were Abortion, Gun Control and The Death Penalty. 

“If you are thinking in your little brains that you are going to come up with some new interesting shocking argument either for or against one of these topics, then you are most certainly yada yada yada ...”

“What about, um - can we talk about adoption,” my Charlie McCarthy doll innocently asked. 

“Hinsley.  Get that THING out of here if you can’t keep it quiet.”

“Sorry teach, won’t happen again,” I lied.

 My Charlie McCarthy Doll had been my faithful companion since the split with my ex-wife.  But lately he’d become a little bit of a nuisance.  I was starting to wonder if things weren’t getting a little out of hand.  Like the time I woke from a nap to find him standing over me, holding a knife.

“Charlie, what’s this?”

 

“Oh you’re awake.  Good.  I uh just came in to ask you if you’d like a cheese sandwich.  That’s why I’m holding a knife, see?  To, uh, cut the cheese!  Hardy har har!”

“No thanks Charlie.  Where’s your shoe?”

“Gone,” he said, “Just gone.”

So.  Sorry.  Back to English class.  Did I mention that my mind would often wander in English class.  Just reliving it is having the same effect on this post.  Weird. 

“So are we all clear on what are the 3 things we cannot write about in this class?”

Under his breath, Charlie leans to me “About which we should not …, ouch! Not the ribs Hinsley!  Jeez.”

“Problem Hinsley?”

“It’s pronounced Hinsley.  And no.  All under control Dr. Smith,” I lied.

“I have a question.  Ouch,”  Charlie blurted out.  Oh my god, this little guy is really getting me in some hot water. 

“Actually, I’d like to hear this.  Class?  Wouldn’t you all like to hear Charlie’s question?”  The professor encouraged.

“I really don’t think …”

“Shh, let’s hear Charlie’s question.  I’ve spent the better part of 2 hours explaining the 3 things I don’t want to read and somehow, this Dummy has a question.”

“Oh professor, He really doesn’t like to be called …”

“So.  Dummy.  What is your Smart ass question?”

“Uh,  ahem.  Yes.  Well first of all, Hinsley looks a little thirsty don’t you think?  Is it ok if he drinks a glass of water while I ask my question?”

See that was Charlie’s trick.  He knew I couldn’t stop him if I was drinking water.

Hang on there’s a phone call.  Caller ID says “Washington DC”  Oh um that was Mitt Romney. He asked if it was ok if he entered my home.  Who am I to say no?

Anyway where was I?  Oh yeah, so  I pull a big glass of water from my book bag and listen helplessly as Charlie asks, “Can we write about stuff that rhymes with these things?  Because I have very strong opinions about Schmun Schmontrol …”

Hang on that must be Mitt Romney at the door …

“I wonder if I might talk to you about joining my fight …”

Chomp. Crunch. Bleed.  Transform into undead. Damn.

Midweek Extra - Maybe I Should Race

I’ve had no desire to race this year.  Too much time commitment, money and disappointment.  I realize it’s different for everybody.  But I have to face the fact that I’m just not very good.  I bought a license at the beginning of the year in the hope of faking myself into training as if I was going to race.  Honestly it worked out exactly as I had hoped.  I lost all of the weight I wanted to lose and then some.  I didn’t train too many hours because I don’t really care, but I always kept that possibility in the back of my mind. 

After several weeks of casual training I started noticing something.  I was feeling better on the bike than I ever had.  Some days would feel weak, but the strong days were stronger than ever.  Although the numbers didn’t seem to verify it.  My rides were slower than in previous years.  I thought that might be due to the fact that I wasn’t really going all out.  I was just going kind of hard for a while during my rides and then spending several minutes at a time relaxing on the bike. 

I would have 4 or 5 days of very weak riding followed by 4 days of stronger than ever (perceptibly) riding.  I started to log what I was doing the days of all these rides to try to make sense of it.  One thing came clear that coincided with all the strong rides.  They were after days of eating lots of carbohydrate rich foods. 

Then, a couple of weeks ago after a particularly hard ride, I chased down a time trialing Mike Miles.  Shim likes to give me shit about the fact that my heart rate went past 170 during this effort trying to chase down Munson, who was wheel sucking, and is by his own admission not in good form right now.  But the truth of the matter is that I averaged between 29 and 30 MPH for the 5 minutes I chased them down.  Obviously this is a walk in the park for a Cat 3 legend like Shim, who is actually too good to upgrade.  But for me, a Cat 4 nobody, it was significant.

Last Friday night we (the family) had to go to a social event.  I ate a lot of snacky carb type food.  So Saturday, I went for a ride that I’ve done through the years to test my fitness.  It’s just a 25 mile out and back.  I have a PR for this ride that has stood for about 7 years.  Until Saturday.  I broke it with an average speed .2 mph higher than before.  Oh yeah, and I added 8 miles of hills to the route.  So maybe I should race.  If Munson is in the race and I can get my heart rate up to 170, I’m destined to not come in last place.  Shim can stand on the sidelines waiting for his elite race, yelling encouraging stuff like “allez allez allez, fatties!”  It will be awesome …. awesome … awesome …

“Freddie, wake up.  Time for school.”

“Five more minutes, Mom.  I had the weirdest dream just now.  There was this mean old guy on a bike who went around talking shit to lesser riders …”

“Those are called assholes, Freddie.  Now get ready for school.”

“Oh yeah, and this guy.  He said you were a whore.”

“It’s because his mother is a whore, Freddie.  School.”

“I guess that makes sense.  But he’s not real.  It was just a dream … Or was it?”

Ok - now I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.

Lance Armstrong’s greatest contribution

Lance Armstrong has done so much to raise the general awareness of cycling in America.

 1) Advances in beating drug tests

 2) Beating cancer

 3) Nailing rock stars (mostly girl ones)

 4) Winning an unprecedented “several” tours of France

 5) Dumping rock stars (mostly girl ones) with cancer.

And the list goes on.  See:

 6) Making yellow rubber bracelets mandatory

 7) Knocking up some chick after having his balls (nuts) radiated.

 8) Eighth achievement

And though this is an impressive list, there’s one lasting impression he’s left on the collective consciousness of America.  The one I’m most thankful for.

I am not “faggot”.

Before Lance Armstrong, if I went out for a bike ride it meant that I was going to be called “faggot” at least once, but more likely 2 or 3 times.

By the early 90’s, Greg LeMond had won 3 tours and was a fairly household name.  At the height of LeMond’s popularity, passing motorists would affectionately yell to me, “Hey – get on the sidewalk, faggot!”

It took cancer survivor, miracle man to change all that.  By the time LA was going for his 4^th straight tour victory, America was growing up.  There was an awakening of sorts.  Cycling became popular.  People everywhere were plunking down hard earned cash for shiny new road bikes.  Now, when a cyclist rode down the street, instead of harsh words, He could hold his head up high to the tune of “Hey – get on the sidewalk, Lance!”

What did that car driver just say?

Beep, beep “Hey Lance!”

Another one.  Sweet.

Like most people, when I drive my car and approach a cyclist, I think, “Oh crap, I have to pass this guy.”  I don’t think, “Look.  What is that on the road?  I’d better yell at it.”

But that’s what some people think.  Until roughly the year 2002, they didn’t know what cyclists were.  And when idiots get confused, they get angry at homosexuals.

Then came good ol’ Lance Armstrong.  It took him winning cycling biggest race about 4 times, but eventually he not only entered mainstream consciousness.  He accomplished the unfathomable.  He entered big fat, idiot, bigot consciousness.  It didn’t matter how much of a fucking moron you were.  You now knew the general form of a road cyclist.  You didn’t know it was called "cyclist".  You knew it only as “Lance Armstrong.”

But I’ll take it over the alternative any day.   Thanks Lance.

The End.

Four minutes later update:  I’ve noticed lately that I hear the “Hey Lance” less and less frequently.  I believe this is because the big fat idiots are forgetting him.  Hopefully someone will rise up soon to fill those shoes.  Who knows, maybe someday people will yell “Hey Shim!” at me.  Never mind.  I prefer “faggot.”

Breakfast Cereals

When I was a kid my favorite was Fruit Brute.  Mostly because he was kind of the bastard stepchild second fiddle character.  He was the underdog, although I think technically he was a werewolf.  The first of the “Monster” themed breakfast cereals I remember was FrankenBerry.  I don’t know if Count Chocula came out before or after (or at the same time as) Frankenberry.  Boo Berry?  Some stupid little tired looking ghost?  No thanks. 

All of these cereals (and Lucky Charms) had one thing in common.  Marshmallows.  Delicious little marshmallows.  Only thing was, they were not delicious straight from the box.  They needed to be steeped in milk for a while.  Oh and by the way, milk used to be white.  Now, for some reason it’s the same color as 10 year old briefs (My college nickname).  I know.  Whole Milk is still white.  I’ve only seen the gray stuff for years though.

So whenever we got one of these marshmallow cereals, we had to eat all the non-marshmallow parts first.  It starts out easily enough, but toward the end, the marshmallows begin to organize, devising schemes to get eaten before all the other bits are gone.  Their favorite trick was clinging to the bottom of the spoon.  As you innocently went to stick 4 grain based nuggets into your mouth, these brazen stowaways would detach from the spoon at the exact moment you were beginning to chomp down.  Sometimes, your tongue would send the alert in time for you to spit the offenders back into the bowl, but usually there was nothing you could do.  A few of us adopted the technique of eating off the top part of the spoon without ever getting the underside in our mouths.

Depending on how careful you were, you could have a very impressive looking pile of milky marshmallows by the time all the meal was gone.  Hang on to that bowl.  If Mom sees all that pure sugar sitting there, she’s going to try to dump it. 

Later on, there was a cereal that I don’t remember much about.  I just remember that it was my favorite.  It was called something like “The Freakies.”  There were several warty colorful characters.  I think I identified with the yellow one.  But I only remember the leader, Boss Moss.  Ok that’s the extent of my recall.  Now to use the internet (Wikipedia) to complete the memory …

The Freakies were made up of seven creatures named Hamhose, Gargle, Cowmumble, Grumble, Goody-Goody, Snorkeldorf and the leader BossMoss. In the mythology of the Freakies, the seven went in search of the legendary Freakies Tree which grew the Freakies cereal. They found the Tree, realized the legend was true, and promptly took up residence in the Tree which then became the backdrop for all the TV spots and package back stories. In 1987, a new Freakies cereal was made, depicting the characters as aliens from another planet. Boss Moss and Grumble were still the same, but the other characters were replaced by new ones, named Hugger, Sweetie, Tooter and Hotdog.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eP8mbxZBl3k

Yeah, it was the yellow one.  Hamhose.  That’s right.  He was always kind of embarrassed by his flamboyant friends, so.

So in conclusion, I saw Munson riding during the Wednesday Night Worlds.  See what I did there?  I was riding.  So was Munson.  The Wednesday Night Worlds were going full bore miles and miles away from where I saw Munson. 

Here’s the cool part.  I was on my way back from what I was estimating as a very hard workout.  Into a slight breeze.  I was going hard.  For me, anything over 150 BPM is hard.  162 is the highest I’ve seen this year.  So I see these 2 douchy racer cyclist types heading south near Culver’s.  As they approach, I notice one looks exactly like Munson with long hair.  Then I’m all “Munson!”  But either he didn’t hear me because of all the hair, or he was ignoring me cause he and whoever was pulling him were flying pretty good. 

I stopped and watched them for a while trying to decide if I was feeling froggy enough to chase them down.  My legs were already very tired.  What the hell.  So I’m going as hard as I possibly can, trying to conserve with a good spin (thanks rollers) and push at intervals.  They are about 300 yards away.  Then they get on the bridge that leads to the big papio trail.  A little out of my way.  Hmm.  Turn around and go home?  Naah.  So I chase and get to about 50 yards from them when I look down and see that my heart rate is at 170.   Then psychology kicked in.  I can’t do this.  They are going too fast.  My heart rate is … Shut up psychology.  Take That!  I stepped on it until I was able to attach to Mike’s wheel.  He hadn’t pulled once this whole time.  So while I’m resting, leader guy turns and sees he has a pesky little marshmallow like stowaway at the bottom of his time trialing spoon.  He kicks it up a notch.  Sorry pal, I’m on now and btw, I just chased you down, so. 

Hey wait a minute, I’m not sure that’s Munson. Those golden locks flowing out the back of his helmet don’t look red enough.  Well rest time’s over, let’s see if I can drop these fags.  As I get into the passing lane … “Munson! It is you.”

“Yeah,” and I swear he said this, “I thought that was either you or Bryan.” 

2 things about this statement.  First, when Munson goes in to get new glasses, he just jacks his thumb toward Mystery Incorporated’s Velma and shouts, “I’ll have what she’s having!”  (I’m saying he has bad eyesight).  Secondly, I need to gain some weight (I’m saying I don’t want to be as skinny as Bryan). 

What a happy reunion.  I guess Randell and Munson are going to take some time off next week for some rides.  I may join them because as Munson said, “It would be nice to get the band back together.”  I’ve suggested we all show up at U.P. on Thursday for the Taco Ride.  That way, maybe we could see Shim.

Ice Castles, Part 1.

"If she hits her quintuple axel, not only will it end a flawless routine,"  wept the announcer, "It will probably be an end to figure skating as we know it!"

The announcer, Brad Neill, had never, not once, lost composure during a broadcast.  But this girl was different.  Neither he nor any of the thousands of fans in attendance had seen anything like it.  Brad was left with the unenviable position of trying to describe what he was witnessing to millions of radio listeners.  Any other announcer would have dropped the microphone, curled up into the fetal position and rocked back and forth in a vain attempt to regain some semblance of sobriety.  But Brad soldiered on.  “I felt like that Hindenburg announcer guy,” He’d later remark. 

All 12,345 (according to gate totals) and 17 unborn (also in the fetal position) were left to watch the most beautiful figure skating performance ever and just cry and cry and cry.

Alexis Camelnofilter was the skater.  A total underdog.  I mean, let me list the ways.  First of all, her only qualification was she just really wanted to be a top skater some day.  She had never had any formal training.  She was from a small town in Iowa.  A town with a Pizza Hut, a Casey’s and Beulah’s Bowling Alley.  The owner of the bowling alley “Big Beulah,” Had been a roller derby queen in the 70’s, and she taught Alexis everything she knew. “I may not know nothing about figure skatin’ but I can see when a girl wants sumpin real bad-like, ain’t nuthin getting in her way,” Beulah was kind of an idiot.

“So anyways, Lexi, - ‘swhat I always called her.  She comes up and says she wants to be the next Tonya Harding.  Says can she use my bowling alley for practicing.  Well I’m not sure I heard her right, but I say yeah, why not.  Makes sense.  Practice for figure skating in a bowling alley.  Then she shows me her genius …”

Alexis really needed a rink, but the nearest one was in Des Moines or Omaha or whatever big city is closest to whatever town she was in in Iowa.  But the one thing that ice rinks and bowling alleys have in common is that they’re slippery.

Beulah continued, “Why, that little girl laced up them rental shoes and walked down to lane number 1.  Then, I’ll never forget this as long as I live, she started running across the lanes, hopping over the ball returns, narrowly missing several gutters, and went airborne.  She danced.  She spun.  She leapt.  A natural.  I was watching this kid do the impossible.  Sure she fucked up the lanes real bad and we had to go ahead and put more of that oil stuff all over them again, but damn.  I never cry.  But I almost did that night.  Because of all the beauty.  Of the skating on the bowling lanes.  Yeah.”

FF>

A few years later, here’s little Lexi Camelnofilter at the World Blind Figure Skating Competition.  Oh yeah – she had some accident that left her blind.  Or she got bowling alley oil in her eyes or something.  Lexi always skated with her faithful partner/service animal, Rex.  Lexi and Rexy, as they were called, had spent months working out their routine.  While Alexis dragged Rex along the ice, he would wimper once for her to turn left and twice for right.  It was almost perfect.    

Here, at the end of the most amazing skater/seeing eye dog display ever witnessed, Alexis was preparing to attempt something that had never been done successfully by any skater.  The elusive quintuple axel. 

It was pretty much agreed that she did not need to do it at all.  A triple would cement a win.  But it had never been about winning.  It was about beauty.  The kind of beauty that makes a grown man weep.  Yeah, I said it.

As she gathered the breakneck speed required for this move, something seemed off.  Rex let out a little growl.  But it was too late.  Her left skate was acting up.  She’d have to leave the ice and land very carefully or it could be disaster.  Closer now, Rex prepared to give the “Clear to leap” lick.  That skate is definitely not right.  Here goes …

“And she’s in the air.  Oh the humanity!  She’s going around and around so many times that I have time to announce it.  Wait a minute.  What this?  Is there something amiss with one of her skates?  It’s hard to be sure in the blur of the spinning, but I know a loose blade when I see it.  Oh shit, This could be disaster.  I count three complete revolutions.  Look at Rex.  Clear out at the end of Lexi’s arm holding on to dear life by his service collar.  How Cute.  Here’s the fourth turn.  Oh lord, She’s going to do it!”  The years of frustration end tonight little Lexy!  Seriously, does anyone else see that skate?  Does it not look goofy?  Oh well, here’s the landing.  Boy, Rex looks a little nervous doesn’t he …

To be continued.


source: Ice Castles

Update on a post from a couple of years ago

A couple of years ago, in this post, I suggested that the baristas at Scooter's should change the tip jar that reads, "College Fund" to something like "Kolledge Phunde". Last week, I told them they should do it. This week, they had done it. I still didn't tip.

The Stupidest Thing I’ve Ever Seen

Starting when I was about 12 years old and up until about the age of 15 or so, I used to love to go roller skating at Skateland. They had pinball, girls, and slurpees. Oh yeah, and some roller-skating. Real skating. Not like you kids today in your fancy-pants inline getups. These skates had the traditional, stable 2 dimensional platform and the big rubber stopper/goer on the bottom/front of each skate. It served the purpose of both braking and rapid acceleration. If you stood “on your toes”, you could run on the stopper for a few strides until you got up to speed. It was important to slow down in transition from the rink to the carpet or you'd continue on at the same speed while your skates lagged behind.

The skates were off-white suede with pink wheels. If you were cool, you had your own skates. Black leather with whatever color wheels defined you as a person. Then you could tie the shoestrings together and drape them over your shoulder as you casually walked into the rink, winking and pointing to your make-believe friends. I was not cool. I tried to tie the shoestrings of my rental skates together, but they (the shoestrings) were too short so the skates didn't lay nicely on my shirt, but propped up from my shoulder to the front and rear as I found a locker.

There were a few Skatelands around town and a place called “Cheap Skate” up on 90th and Maple, but Skateland near Irvington was our home rink.

The evening of skating was typically 2-3 hours. In that time, there was the default “Free skate” where all were allowed to skate, provided they skate slowly and carefully all the way around that black traffic circle. This was a black piece of tape that circumnavigated the inner part of the rink. If you were a rebel, you’d skate dangerously close to the tape, flirting with cutting the corner. I won’t lie. Sometimes we cut across the tape at either end. Usually the end opposite the DJ/Skate Patrol station. Sometimes we got flagged for cutting, but usually we got away with it. The Skateland peace officers ran a pretty tight ship. Once after a rather egregious black traffic circle infraction (My friend was completely on the other side, so I cut through the middle), I was sent to cool off with the stern admonition, “That shit might fly at Cheap Skate, but it’s not happening here. Not on my watch, kid. I mean, look at you in your stupid rental skates.”

To keep everybody honest, Skateland would stage various specialty skate sessions throughout the evening. They were two songs long and I was excluded from most of these for one reason or another. That was OK with me. Mostly, I just liked to see how fast I could skate. I used to think I was like some sort of Eric Heiden on wheels. I’d even put my left arm behind my back as I sped through the crowd for a few “laps”, only to bring it (my arm) down for the final burst …




Whistle!! “Slow down, kid”

“Oh yeah, I know, Cheap Skate, yada yada yada. Sorry.”

The first specialty skating session was the “Ladies Only” Skate. The songs were, Hot Chocolate’s “You Sexy Thing” and “Brick House” by the Commodores. This was the time when the girls got to show off their disco/skate moves. Well, except for the cool girls. They just skated at a walking pace, complaining to one another about all the losers at Skateland.

During the Ladies Skate, The gentlemen lined up along the rail to watch. Everyone in their new velour shirt. Except me, of course. I couldn’t afford velour, so I had to watch from the confines my cheap terrycloth wanna-be-velour shirt. At least my watch was the cool red L.E.D. kind that required the push of a button to see the time. Not one of those stupid grey and black L.C.D. ones.

Next was the Backward skate. Backward skaters only, please. I don’t remember what songs they played for the backward skate. Nonetheless this was a very important skate. We "forward only" skaters needed to find out which girls could skate backwards. This way, I knew exactly who I was going to be too afraid to ask to accompany me to the “Couples Skate”.

The songs for the couples skate were “Beth” by KISS and the heartwarming domestic abuse number, “Don’t give up on us” by David Soul a.k.a “Hutch”. There were 3 couple skates during the evening. I usually spent those times looking out at all the happy couples skating. I’d reflect on what it would be like to be brave enough to ask a girl to skate with me. Ahh, those would have been the days! Occasionally, a girl would ask me to skate, so I got to go. But then, if she liked me, she might try to kiss me or something. Panic! Ahh. I don’t know how to do this! Fear of looking like a fool has hindered me in some way for most of my life. Unfortunately, my grasp on what looks foolish is all topsy-turvy.





There was also the “Hokey Pokey”. I was never sure how to shake my “left side” about without affecting the rest of my body, so I gave up and just let my right side go too. The neat thing about the Hokey-Pokey (besides its apt name) was that it was held at the center of the rink and you were actually allowed to skate on the black traffic circle when you turned yourself about. I’d emphatically tap the tape with the front wheels of my right skate, glancing innocently at the official. He’d glare back at me powerless, barely concealing his rage. “Kid, if this wasn’t the Hokey-Pokey, I’d open the double doors of this place with your smarmy little skull.”

Judges? Ok yes, we’ll accept “smarmy” - but we're not happy about it.

Then came the “Gentlemen’s Skate”. The 2 songs for the Gentlemen’s Skate were always Foghat’s “Slow Ride” and “Ballroom Blitz”, but I don’t know who performed it and we didn’t have the internet available back then so I can’t check. But it was these guys.



Who years later became these guys:



Anyway, this post is about the stupidest thing I ever saw (Remember, I couldn’t actually see myself trying to skate like a speed skater). But first, I have to talk about the coolest thing I ever saw, because they’re related. It was during the Dude’s skate, and some dude (with his own skates, of course) was leaning back on one skate, one foot forward, rolling along, pretending to be playing a guitar to the song “Slow Ride”. He had nothing in his hands at all. But by position alone, it was obviously some sort of pantomime of a guitar player. Brilliant. Also, it may not have been called a "mullet" yet, but he was sporting a damn cool one.

If only I had my own skates, a shiny red shirt, unbuttoned to reveal my fashionable Italian horn necklace, the ability to lean back like that, and permission to grow my hair, I’d be as cool as that guy. I don’t know if this type of pantomime was called “Air Guitar” yet (I'm from the time before things had names). It was the first time I ever saw anybody do it. What a great idea. Like lip syncing, only not as realistic looking. All the cool guys wore black pants and a red shirt because it approximated the Skateland Traffic cop uniform and most of these guys yearned to hold that position one day. A friend once rhetorically asked me, “You know how much tail those guys get?”

I think it was rhetorical. Maybe he wanted to know because he did actually get the job a few years later. I don't know if he got any tail though. We went our separate ways after I stopped going to Skateland and he didn't.

The day after witnessing the fabulous air guitar demonstration, I was standing at the jewelry counter at Target, browsing the Italian horn necklace section (they had one of those in the 70’s), When I decided to see if I could knock out a few licks on the “no guitar in my hands at all.” I couldn’t do it. It just didn’t feel right. Mostly because I had taken guitar lessons. On acoustic guitar. Sitting down. When I tried to “Air Guitar” I looked more like Leon Redbone, hunched over, looking down at my fingers, etc. Nobody “Air guitars” to Leon Redbone. So when I tried to air guitar to some rockin’ Van Halen or something, I’d always miss the chord, stop, look at my hand, back up and start again. By that time, the guitar solo would be pretty much over. Turns out I can’t air guitar any song I can’t actually play on real guitar. And it’s not like I could request “Tom Dooley” at Skateland, is it? That air guitar performance remained the coolest thing I had ever seen until 1999. That’s when “The Matrix” came out.

Oh yeah, the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen was in a Documentary called “Air Guitar Nation”. The documentary is excellent. It is about a very serious worldwide Air Guitar competition. Some of these guys actually hate the other competitors. There are accusations of cheating, song stealing, etc. It is unbelievable the amount of time, practice and preparation that goes into pretending to play an instrument. Granted, the end result is well worth it. Whatever. It’s the stupidest effing thing I've ever seen.

Hang on I think I know who’s at the door, but I’m going to go check and make sure it’s not a you-know-what. Holy crap! Snap crunch slurp die.

Note: It wasn't until many years later that I realized the cool air guitar guy at Skateland was Shim.