Typical Morning at my Home

I woke up. What for? Did I need to cough, or go pee? It's plenty dark yet, wonder what time it is.

I sit up on the edge of the bed, let out a little yawn and rub my hands across my face. 'Pee or what?' I ask myself. Hmmm, body heard - pee it is. I get up and stumble the few steps to the restroom doorway, flick out the hand along the wall for the light and wince as the single bulb comes on. Two steps forward - complete business - shake, shake. Turn around, be sure to get the light. Pause for the eyes to adjust and glance over towards the Wife's head for the clock. A nice bright 5:25 stares redly back at me. 'Sigh'. I sit back on the bed then decide it isn't worth sleeping over. I stretch out on my side and watch my wife.

She's so soft looking there in the early morning light that barely penetrates the drapes. Evidently she was warm and has kicked her blankets off, and I reach out gently to rub her leg softly.

" -neath the light of a neon moon. Ohhhhh if youuu looosee your one and only - " Damn! I can't reach the alarm. I let it play out at 3/4 volume for a minute, then reach over and nudge the Wife. A hand rises from the shadow of where she lays and flops on the snooze button. I know she has got 10 minutes until she gets up to make sure the daughter is up and getting ready for school. Which means I can nap for about 30 more before I take her to school.

I reach out again and softly rub my hand against her thigh. "Stop it." I freeze. I move my hand down towards her knee, and rub again. "I said stop it." Uh oh.

"Why hun? I just miss being able to cuddle with you, " which is technically true. I have been on the kids the past 4 nights about being in bed on time so Momma can come to bed. As it is, she doesn't come to bed until after I am asleep.

"You ain't wanting cuddling, and I want to rest as long as I can. You can't fool me with your ulterior motives." I glare at the lump on the other side of the bed. She has not once raised her face to the sky, or moved except the arm to shut the snooze. "If you're good, maybe tonight." What? A consolation prize? I don't need no steenkin' prize!

"Sorry, but by then that will be too late. Today is the last day of that sale down the street from work. You know, the one at Benji's Boob-a-rama ...." I let the voice fade and decide it is time to just be quiet.

A muffled sound. I swore it sounded at first like the first rumblings of a lioness' roar as it would build through the throat, but as you could tell, I hadn't watched enough of them nature shows to know better. "Ha. Ha. Do and die."

I rolled over to my back. Whatever happened to one of the most primal urges that help separate homo sapien from some of the lower class mammals? Has our generation just retarded those tendencies so that they are no longer necessary? I feel like I have lost part of actual being by not being able to get that growl -from-the-gut UGH! UGH!UGH every now and then! The feel of the fist as it pounds on chest of the muscular male!! Let that Bull Ape Yell ring free from the midst of your being - (insert favorite Tarzan yell)!!!

Aye, it has been thwarted; diverted; pushed to the wayside. And all she had to do was move one arm. Sigh. If I hurry, maybe I can still get 20 more minutes sleep. Then again, there's always a chance for tonight....

Library Card

Frankfort, Indiana boasts some older buildings in the “Courthouse Square” area. Many of the buildings are from the 1920’s or so, and some have been restored to keep that look. One such building located a couple blocks to the west of the courthouse, was the public library. This was a huge building on almost a complete block of land, and had lush green lawns with trees and benches scattered throughout. My 9th birthday was my first trip into the mysterious depths of this landmark. My Dad had given me an Adult library card, meaning complete access to everything available. For a 9 year old, it’s a ticket to the exotic world of adult literature.

My early visits consisted of shyly going up the huge curving stairway to the second floor, and veer right to the Juvenile book area. This was the best place for me to start, and I read plenty just sitting there in beanbags, or stretched out on the couch. Very rarely did anyone ever venture into my world in this section. Maybe once in a great while another youth (who surely did not have the Adult card) would come in and select a couple books then leave. The librarians would stop by once an hour to be sure I was fine, and if I needed any help. By four o’clock, I was usually ready to head home, and would take one or two books to check out for the next couple of days. Then I would be back, wondering about the Adult section.

I never was sure what the librarians would say if I were to just go straight to the adult areas. I imagined embarrassment if I were to be carded, or even rejected, and the card be taken away. Or worse, they compile a list of adult books I perused or checked-out and presented it to my Dad so he would be aware of the material I was reading. Would they monitor what I even looked up in the card catalog? What if they caught me with something “Mature” that kids shouldn’t be looking at? Would I be banned from the library? What would my Dad say? These worries clouded my mind every time I thought about using that access.

Finally the day came when I had no choice but to venture into the world of Adult Literature. I strolled into the library, nonchalantly was the best I could describe my steps. I placed the few books I had last checked out into the return bin, and took a quick glance around. I only saw the one librarian (there were usually two working at a time, and sometimes a third that was part-time) and she seemed busy checking in returns, or preparing to shelve books. Either way her attention seemed diverted. I walked on past her desk and headed immediately to the Fiction section. Paperbacks were there in front, where I could be seen from the desk, so I took my time appearing to browse through the selections, keeping a wary eye out for the librarian.

She glanced up in my direction. I froze. She got up and started walking over in my direction. What was I to do? I furtively looked for somewhere to run, but the only out I had was deeper into the library. I heard her steps across the tiled floor grow louder, then stop behind me. Here was the moment I had been dreading since I planned this venture.
“Is there anything I can help you find?” She asked me.

“No. I am just looking.” I replied, my voice cracking out of the dry throat.

“You usually read books on science fiction and fantasy in the juvenile section, don’t you?” Again with a question, and she remembered I regularly was upstairs. Was this a preparatory question prior to checking my library card?

“Yeah. But I have read most of what interests me there, so I came down here to find some more.” Geez! I sound like an idiot.

“Come over to this section,” she says as she turns and walks over a few rows of books. “This is the adult sci-fi area. These two shelving units listed alphabetically by author, and around on the other side you’ll find the paperbacks. Does that help?” A smile appears on her face as she folds her hands. I looked at her, and I swear I felt like I was being tested. Did I know the proper response to her encoded request for a pass phrase? Could it truly be this difficult?

“Yeah. I hadn’t gotten that far yet.” No shit, Sherlock. I think she knew how far you had gotten. You only have been in here five minutes. I stand there, waiting anxiously for he next step in this crazy dance.

“If you need any more help, you can ask me anytime.” Another smile. Then she turned and headed past me back to her desk. I followed her with my eyes, until I saw her sit down and once again started on whatever she had been doing. Wow! That was it!?! The Adult world was now mine to explore! Greedily I stepped over to the books and started browsing.

After several hours of browsing, and re-browsing, I had selected a few books. There are no comfy looking sitting arrangements in here though, just wooden tables and chairs. I head towards the stairway, when the other librarian appears heading towards me on the stairs.

“Finding ever thing okay?” What is up with the smiles?

“Yeah. I am just going upstairs for comfortable seating to read for awhile.” Quick, dodge the second attack!

“Okay. See you when you are ready to check-out.” She moves on past, and I run up the remaining steps.

Later that afternoon, I steadily walked to the check out counter and the librarian came over to stamp the cards and register my name. I casually handed over my card, the regular white one (no yellow for “kids only” books). She quickly checked out my selections, never once making a list of titles, or giving me any looks. I tossed them into the duffel bag and went out the door as fast as I could. I did it! Whoo! Adult books were now available to me!

Every trip I made back always had me downstairs in the adult areas. Be it Fiction, or sci-fi, westerns or whatever. The only time I got questioned was when I started reading Mack Bolan books, and that was eased over with a simple “Not as brutal as some of the westerns I have read”.
After a few years, I moved out of state, and gotten a library card elsewhere. Even when I took my daughter, years ago, to get her first card, they never once asked if she should have that access. But I remember this story every time I walk into a library, and always do a look around for a librarian, as she may prevent me from the Adult area.

Regular Day

The drinking had started early that day. By early, I meant when I awoke, mid-afternoon, fuzzy from the libations I had partaken of the night before. I tossed off the blanket haphazardly, barely registering the tinkling sound as the bottles on the coffee table fell against each other. It didn’t matter – they were empty. Hell, the way I felt nothing mattered. I stumbled to the bathroom to do the morning duties.

Within a matter of minutes, I was once again dressed to kill in the style if Me: T-shirt, denim shorts, Budweiser ball cap and sandals. Without this essential gear, I could not relax properly. I loaded the pockets with the usual small change, wallet, cell, keys, and lighter. The lighter was important. I had a bad habit of leaving them at the bar, causing me no end of fits when trying to smoke that last cigarette on the way home late at night. The other half of the time, I leave them in the car, so I know where they are, and the sun heats them up until they explode. I once actually saw the small fireball as I approached the car one summer day. I am surprised that the car has not caught fire yet.

‘What are the plans today?’ I ask myself. ‘Reading day or other? I think I’ll read today.’ I look out in the car to see if the current novel I am enjoying is still in there, or if I had taken it in. It’s there, cool. Nothing else to wait for, so I start down the road to Jimbo’s.

How do you define a good bar? I have spent years deciding what is most important to myself, and searching for the “perfect bar” which I know will never be found. Or worse, it will be found and going out of business/closed down/bought out the next day. I like the more “Little hole in the wall” places, where the crowd is usually gray/silver headed gentlemen, where the beer is priced decently, and they pour you a double when you order a shot. Where the bartender knows what everyone there drinks, and doesn’t have to ask. And most importantly, everyone leaves you alone unless you join their conversation. Perfect ambiance for reading the novel.

After a few hours (more like 6), a change in the bartender shift, two trips to the restroom, half a pack of cigarettes, and too many drinks later (I lost count around 8) it’s time to head out. I tab out, and go sit in the car wondering what am I doing now…. Home or another bar? Karaoke starts at 9 up the road…. But I am sort of tired. Home is straight down the road about 4 miles…. But this place is only a mile – just one mile – up the other road. New meaning to the phrase “Decisions, Decisions, Decisions”, eh?

Okay, home it is. I start the car and turn down the road towards the abode. I carefully thread the car into the drive, missing both the garbage can and the post for the carport. Shut down the engine, turn off the lights, and I sit there for a moment. Good night or bad night? Let’s see how fast I fall asleep and think about it in the morning. I get out of the car, stumble to the door, and enter the house. I lock the door and head to the couch, making a mental note to clean up the mess of bottles in the morning. I sort through the mess of empty Cheet-o’s bags, Jack Daniels bottles, ashtrays with the cigarette butts overflowing, and miscellaneous ashes that never made it to the ashtray. There it is, the fabled TV remote. Power is pressed and the large screen comes alive in bright colors on some infomercial for better abs by pretending to ski. Just four easy payments, and if you order now… Quickly I peruse through the available channels to discover there is nothing of interest with which to entertain myself. Off goes the television, and the overhead light. Damn! Will need to replace that bulb tomorrow. I lay back and light one up.

Inhale.

Exhale.

‘Yeah’, I say to myself. ‘Wasn’t a good day. Wasn’t a bad day. Just another day.’

Cake makes me wanna Barf

How many people in the world say that they are NOT finicky eaters? Not picky. Will eat anything and everything. Doesn’t matter as long as it is prepared basically correct, and served at the right temperature it’ll go down the gullet. I used to be one of those. But I started getting picky when I was around 8-9 years old. One of those major life events that changed how I looked at certain foods.

My Dad and Step Mom (SM) got married in 1980. They had dated I am guessing at least half a year, maybe more. I never really cared at that age. Well, Dad had a regular job as a draftsman for Beard Industries. They made grain dryers for farms all around the country. SM had a job working in shipping/receiving at the only Peter Paul/Cadbury plant in the US. Which on a side note was located in Frankfort, IN. Boy, I sure remember the days when she would bring home bow of damaged Powerhouse candy bars … or Easter when they got discount prices on them Cadbury eggs with the crème in the middle. Anyways, I am getting sidetracked.

SM had always done some side business of making/decorating cakes for people. Most of the time it was for friends since she worked full time, but she would make exceptions for other people too. She had had one of them long ass classes from Wilson cake school on decorating and she is a very artistic person to boot. Well, as the goes, we moved into a 2nd floor apartment in Frankfort within a year or two. The 1st floor consisted of 2 empty “stores”. Well, SM and Dad decided to start of a cake decorating and supply shop since Peter Paul had closed and she was out of work. Sure enough they did start one up, and it did moderately well considering. One of the main things of the biz was taking cake orders. For anything. Parties, B-days, Anniversaries, weddings – I mean anything. I even saw her do one for a bachelorette party. So she got a good number of orders throughout the week, and even busier on weekends, and that would vary more with the time of year.

Guess who learned how to bake? Uh Huh. You betcha. From the time I got out of school I would be in charge of baking the cakes. Make sure of correct flavors, sizes of the pans, and then have to make the icing to boot! Gotta know how much for what sized cake, is it supposed to flavored or not. This went on for 2 years, basically until Dad got diagnosed with cancer and they closed the shop.

I learned to hate cake. I learned to throw up at the mere taste of frosting. I don’t even like the smell of it baking. You know how many times in a normal year you are exposed to cake as a dessert? My family still asks if I want any at Bday parties for the kids and always get the “look” from me, like I would puke on them if they came near. But sometimes, you just have to swallow your pride and try not to puke.

I had gone to a poker party last Saturday night, and had Daughter watch the 2 older boys. We arrived back home about 10:30’ish I would say, and of course they were still up. Well, I in the bedroom taking off my shoes when the Daughter comes in. Seems they had made a cake for the Wife’s and mine anniversary. Cake. Worse, chocolate cake, with store bought icing, in 3 different flavors. I about hurled. But, being the parent I am I said how nice it looked and to get it back in the kitchen before she dropped it or something. I can sit here and tell you how my 15-year-old Daughter has known from birth I hate cake, but it didn’t stop her. Or the boys who had helped.

God knows I love the thought, but next year, a hug will do just fine.

Why I hate Bugs

Well, I believe it was my sophomore year, and yes, I had those outside chores to do. The attempt was being made to grow grass in the front and back yards. The front yard was fairly small, and had sprinklers, but they had to be turned on/off manually, and you had to watch how long they ran. Same in the backyard, but you were watering dirt patches more than anything else there. We were also trying to grow bushes and a couple trees in the front yard, One of my chores was to water the bushes and trees every Mon, Wed, Fri after school. It was a pain in the ass because the bushes ran along one side of the property, then around the front by the sidewalk, and would take forever for a teenager to get done (about 20-30 minutes actual).

So this one particular day I am in a hurry to get this chore done. I don't remember why. Maybe some television show was coming on I wanted to watch, who knows. I am out there in my bare feet, hose in hand, over by the side watering the bushes one by one, when I feel something tickle the top of my foot. It was a mild sensation, and my mind being elsewhere than watching what I am doing, I thought it was just some of the water splashing. After I had shifted a couple bushes I fell it now on top of both feet, and I determine it shouldn't be the water. I glance down, and damn near jumped straight on top of the roof!

My feet were coated with bugs! I don't mean little bugs like tiny ants, or aphids - we are talking large mutant ladybug-looking creatures!! Yes! Ladybug-like mutants! They were about 1 ½ inches long, and had their backs colored a rust-orange with black spots, and antenna that they could use to radio to the moon. There legs were black and reminded me of grasshopper legs, how they grip a bit to hang on to anything.

I dropped the hose, and moved faster than sound in wiping them off my feet. Just as I shivered thinking about how I was lucky to get them off before they bit me, I remembered the hose was still running and it wasn't on the bushes. I went to reach for the hose and saw the ground. I looked forward, left, then right, then straight down at my feet. I was surrounded by these bugs by about 4 feet to either side, and as far forward as the back fence (about 10 yards). They literally blanketed the ground, and they were starting to crawl on my feet again.

With a yell that broke sound monitoring equipment three counties over, I ran for the house. I ran to the backyard and on that side of the property, there was a mass of them back there as well, covering about 6 feet wide swath through the side of the yard, and over the shed. No where in the yard did I see them but that one side. At this point I am scared shitless since I have no clue if they are poisonous, if they bite, are they in the house?! I put on some boots and run to shut off the hose, taking big steps across the bugs and moving as fast as possible. Back inside I call Mom. She is getting ready to leave work and will check it out when she gets home. I am hoping I can survive until then.

Mom comes home and she has no clue what they are either. Same with the step-dad. They placed a call to the pest control company (who sprayed our place every 2 weeks). The guy that came out, our regular service guy, had no clue what they were either. So he takes a few for samples to send over to ASU's entomology dept (bug teachers). Within 48 hours we found out all about them bugs.

Seems they are not poisonous, and they migrate in these huge groups. Their migratory path is in a straight line, but what makes this line stay straight no one knows. They eat vegetation and should be out of our area within a week. Not near fast enough for me. Sure enough, within a few days they had migrated out the backyard and over to the next property along the way. They didn't damage the lawn like I thought they might, in fact you couldn't tell they had been there. Except for my Mom, to whom making fun of me for being scared of a few bugs was just the funniest thing. To this day I cannot stand any type of bug longer than like an inch. They freak me out.

The Other Night out at the Bar

So I am sitting at the bar last night, had my semi-regular stool and spot, Jack with the Bud chaser, book in hand, minding my own business, when this well-endowed woman damn near tackles me off the chair. Actually, she was doing her best to hug me, I think, because the first words out of her mouth were, "Do you like strippers?"

What in the hell do you say to a woman that asks that. Funny you should ask. I told her. "Yeah, I do." (Imagine that Ray Stevens style like in "The Streak")

"You like the way my tits look?" as she pushes them against me more.

I look down upon her ample cleavage, and say, "Yeah, I do."

"You wanna come see me dance naked? I'll let you look at my pussy..." she says, trying to be seductive. At the same tie I am trying to disengage her arms from me and stand her upright instead of using my lap for a bed.

"Not tonight, Honey. I got enough for me to do right here and now. How about a rain check?" I give her the smile, you know, the one that is supposed to reassure people you know what is best.

She straightens up, shakes her breasts back and forth across my arm, gives me one of those fake puppy dog grins, and says "I will be watching for you. You better be front row on Friday."

"Not a problem. you best be careful going home now." She stumbles on over to the door, where another gal she was with, was waiting for her, and they staggered out the door. I was sitting in my chair thinking 'WTF was that?!? A proposition from a titty dancer to go see her on Friday night, and she didn't even tell me where!'

I shook my head.

Sipped my Jack.

Lit a cigarette.

Blew the smoke out of my mouth.

Turned to the next page in my book.

Mexico and Jack Daniels

Late in the year of 2004, a few buddies and I had gotten together and decided to do a special trip down to Rocky Point. We decided it would be in January, and it was going to be a “Guys Only” trip considering we would go down once or twice of the year with the wives/girlfriends. Sounds cool! Guys only, in Rocky Point, for a good three day weekend.

Well, Friday morning started off well, and we car-pooled on down to the border. We always stop to get a few items from the Duty-Free store there, like smokes, and hard alcohol. I was debating on buying a bottle of Gentleman Jack, or to go with Crown Royal. Prices were good (and tax free) coming to about $28 for a bottle, when normally it would be well over $30 back home. As I was mulling over the dilemma of which would be better for the weekend, Don points out to a display case.

“Why not get that Jack, Ralph?” I turned to look and my jaw drops. There was a HUGE bottle of Jack Daniels sitting there. A sign on the bottle said $51. I looked at Don, and he starts laughing. I take a closer look, and realize that has got to be the buy of the day. A 3 liter bottle of Jack for $51. Now the normal “big” bottle in the stores runs around $40 - $45, and it is only 1.75 liters. I am getting 1.25 liters more for about $6 more. Do the math. It’s a good buy. I took the bottle to the counter.

All the boys were giving me some grief about buying the biggest bottle of Jack the world has probably seen, but I grin and think … mmm, gonna taste good. Meanwhile we move on down the road.

As soon as we get settled into the condo, I got that bottle opened and start pouring. Normally I drink a Jack with a Budweiser chaser, but being in Mexico, and the way we buy beer there, it was usually a Corona, or Pacifico instead of Bud. We had other stuff too, depending where we were at. I know I had some Sol and Dos Equis as well.

Well, the weekend went along, and I am drunk the whole time. I always tend to drink a lot when I am vacationing. Sometimes that’s good, sometimes bad.

Good: Mellowing in a chair out on the patio looking out on the ocean enjoying the buzz.
Bad: being so drunk when you lay on your back to give the dancer a dollar from your mouth, and your friends spin you like a turtle while trying to help you off the stage. Don’t Laugh! It happened – not that trip, but still.

As my friends will tell you, probably just about all of them, cannot keep up with me when drinking. For some stupid reason, I get a thrill out of that, but that is just wrong. However, there were many times someone would be up in the wee hours of the morning, and see me half asleep on the patio with cup and bottle in hands.

This particular trip, I think we all found out who is able to sleep with whom at night. I had warned all before the trip, but some people just have to be convinced, and Bo was the one who won that trip. I snore. Let me rephrase that. I snore – LOUDLY. Every time I went to bed that weekend, Bo was up and moving, no matter the time. Heck Saturday night he slept on the tile outside the bedroom door. It made a good laugh for most of the guys, and I just grinned and said “I told you so.”

So, come Sunday morning, I get on up out of bed and stumble towards the patio. Most of the guys are up and moving already, and one of them points out the bottle of Jack sitting on the counter. Now it had sat on the counter as open for anyone since Friday when we arrived.

“Hey Ralph. You gotta drink the rest of the bottle.” I glance over at the bottle. Damn! There is only about 3 inches of Jack left in it. I shook my head.

I groggily said,”Nope. Ain’t gonna happen. Did anyone else drink any of it this weekend?”

I believe only 2 or maybe 3 said they had had the equivalent of a shot of Jack earlier in the weekend, but no more. So I think to myself, I drank damn near that whole bottle. I sat there and thought about it for a few minutes, thinking maybe I should finish it off. My stomach kept saying no way.

I ended up bringing the rest of it home and actually finishing it about three weeks later. I held on to the bottle until it was decided that it did not need to be displayed where everyone coming into the house could see it. I still wonder on occasion, do they have bigger bottles, or is the next size a keg? How long would it take to drink a keg….

OTL and the Bus

I don’t know how many of you have heard of the Over The Line tournament held every year in San Diego. It is a pretty big production bringing literally hundreds of people from across and even out of the country. Old Mission Bay Athletic Club has sponsored this tourney for the past 53 years. You can read more about it at www.OMBAC.com if you are interested. Quick basics are that it is a 3-man team, 20 minute game, double elimination event. Field dimensions are different than a regular field (see website for more info). Lastly, the team name can be ANYTHING you want it to be, no matter how long, how wordy, how vulgar, or anything. For example, if I remember the team names correctly of my buddies, there was “Phoenix Beaver Eaters”, “IF you’ve Been To Phoenix, Chances Are We Fucked Your Relatives” or something like that. I think I messed up a word or two. Lastly, this year’s new team “Two in the Pink, One in the Stink”.

My buddies had been doing this OTL thing for about three years, or so, and each year they bring along a couple more friends that enjoy it, and continue going. Well, this year was my year to be initiated and decided I would go and check it out. It would be good to be where it is cooler than Phoenix, and drinking with 8 of my buddies for four days. This first year, I would not be playing unless a last minute accident and they needed me.

Before I get too far into the story, I probably need to explain few things to you. The OTL is held on an island (Fiesta Island, to be exact) that has only 1 exit/entrance. There is VERY limited RV parking, and this is the only time of year the island officials allow even more limited parking. No biggee – we were doing car pools anyways as we had all flown into San Diego. At the OTL there are a number of sponsor tents, and food tents, etc etc scattered around the edges of the playing fields. One particular tent is called the “Circle of Champions” and costs $35 per ticket to gain entrance. This ticket has to be bought prior to the OTL start date by mail. What you get once you are in though, is free food, and drink (alcoholic or other) for as long as they are open. There are also no running water restrooms on the island and Port-a-Potties are prevalent all around. So a brief recap:

1. “Circle Of Champions”
2. only One entrance/exit to the island
3. limited parking
4. port-a-potties all around

It’s Saturday morning and OTL begins in about an hour. We all load up in the Limo (yes Limo. Friend knew a connection and we got a nice discount to have him drop us off at the island). All of us cram in and away we go. We are conveniently dropped off at the gate to the OTL. Since I was the only one there not playing in any games, it was determined I would get a table at the “Circle of Champions” and reserve it throughout the day for the other guys as they had breaks between games and whatnot. Perfect! Sit and drink and eat as much as I want! Well, I had to wait about half an hour before they opened, and I strutted my way in the that fence enclosed structure, admiring the red band on my wrist that gave me reign to come and go from this most honored establishment. I quickly ordered up the requisite Bud and a Jack. Glancing around I saw many tables still available (as I was like the fourth person entering) and quickly headed for one in the back corner, no more than 15 feet from about 7 port-a-potties (for quicker and easier access). The table is only 20 feet from where the food will be brought out, and has a good umbrella shade to protect me from the sun. I see a waitress start heading my way.

“Here ya go Honey,“ I say with a smile as I give her a $20 bill. “You earn that and maybe more, if every time you come by me, you bring a Jack and Bud, for as long as I am sitting here.”

She smiles at me and says, “No problem. You ready for one now?”

“Matter of fact, yes, just bring it on out, even if I have little still in front of me.”

That was the start of a beautiful relationship of the day. I do not think I could have loved anyone else more than that waitress at that moment. So I am kicking back, listening to the announcer call out the names and field numbers for the teams to play. Every now and then there would be a good one, like, “We were going to hang your black ass until we found you was our daddy”, or “Owie, Owie, get it out it hurts”. I wish I would have gotten a program so I could be sure I wrote those team names right, plus so I could seen the ones I don’t remember hearing.

So things are going along well and time moves on. My buddies came and went, and the drinks kept going down. About 10:30 or so I think (I had only been in here since about 9) the first piece of bad news arrives via the waitress.

“We are out of Jack Daniels. Is there something else you would prefer?” I asked for my choices and there were not many. All the alcohol had to be carted out to the island, so there was a limit to how much could be there as well. I settled switching to Jim Beam, and proceeded to enjoy the day.

Throughout the morning, I had had my share of pretzels, and a little later on there was nachos with some pretty spicy salsa. Around noon the good food started coming out, and the “Circle of Champions” started to fill up quite well. There were all sorts of lunch meats for sandwiches. Real good stuff and the slices were nice and thick compared to most places. My buddies have all played at least their first game around this time, when I hear the news that someone has been injured and taken by ambulance tot the hospital. That’s too bad, this was such a beautiful day and things were going well. Then I find out, that guy is one of my buddies. Seems he got hit by a line drive or fell on the ball, but ended up hurting his ribs (final tally was three cracked ribs). Well, the rest of us knew he knew where we were staying, and would be able to call some of us if needed. That was one team out, two to go.

Around 1:00pm, we have a nice crowd filling in the Champions tent, and I am eyeballing every pretty woman that I could see. My waitress was doing a wonderful job until she came to tell me more bad news.

“They are now out of Jim Beam. Is there something else you would like?” Again I listened to my options, which were obviously a shorter list than last time. I decided on the scotch. If nothing else, I doubt very many people would be drinking it, and I may make it the rest of the day with out having to change again. Bud is still flowing mightily.

Things after that did not seem to bother me a bit. From what I remember, our other two teams ended up losing their second games and near 4pm we decided it was time to leave. I do not recall the exact number of guys there was in our group, my main concern was that I was never left alone somewhere I was not familiar with. Everyone in our group, plus many other people that were attending today, were shuffling and staggering (limping & staggering in my case) towards the main gate. At the main gate were two separate lines for the buses to take you off the island. Since I had been slower than the rest of our group, I was a bit behind, and stood there trying to figure what line am I supposed to be in, when I was hailed from my buddies. They were ahead in one line about 8-10 people ahead of me. Well, after maybe 15 minutes in line, a bus comes up and they begin boarding. Wouldn’t you know it, but the cut-off for the bus was right in front of me. I am standing there, all my buddies are on this bus (all of them I thought) and I am alone, having to wait for the next bus. I holler at them to be sure to wait for me when they get dropped off.

As the first bus pulls away, another is right behind it, so I am glad I won’t be but 5-10 minutes behind my buddies. I look over towards the end of the line and I see Joe, one of our group. I holler at him to get up here with me so we don’t get too separated. We load up the bus and it takes off. Everyone is feeling good after a day at the beach and OTL, and talking and whatnot.

After about a 10-15 minute ride (I think) the bus ends up pulling into this parking lot, in the middle of nowhere it seems. Everyone begins to get off, except me and Joe. About 5 minutes later, Joe, myself, three other guys we knew from Phoenix, and 2 others I didn’t know were still on the bus. Our bus driver was this short black woman that reminded me from the way she talked and looked like Nell Carter. She looks up in her bus driver mirror and says “Y’all gotta get offa my bus. This is the end of the line.”

Now, I had been drinking beer & whiskey, & scotch since about 9:15 in the morning, and it is around 4’ish in the afternoon. This woman made me sober so quickly with just that sentence. In the brief moment of silence, I looked at Joe, then looked out the window, and realized I had no clue as to where I was. There were no stores, buildings, nothing, but an overhead roadway. Again, the seven of us passengers all looked at one another as if to say “What do we do now?”

“Ma’am,” I say, being polite as I think I have ever been. “Isn’t this bus supposed to go over to Mission Bay Park?”

“No. You done got on the wrong bus if that was where you is supposed to be. This is my last stop” I can see her glaring at me in the mirror, and I began to fear. My chest began to tighten some, and that little voice in my head had dropped to the very back of my head saying ‘you’re so screwed’ that I almost began to believe him. Joe had started to get up to head out the door, and I reached out to grab his arm, having him pause what he was doing.

For those of you that know me, when I have been drinking for a time, my voice changes some. I start having a bit of a sort-of Southern drawl. I have been called Larry the Cable Guy on many occasions. Almost like Ray Stevens in that song “The Streak” – Yeah I did. Git R Done.

“Ma’am, is there some way that we can rectify this situation?” I heard this come from my mouth, sounding like a hick that had been educated at an Ivy League college. “Is it possible for you to at least drop us off at the island so that we may get in the right line for the bus we need?”

“No way am I doing that. This is my last stop and I am done for the day.” Man, I swear things can’t stack up against me any worse. My mind is still reeling about how I am going to get out of this place when I have no idea where I am at…..

“Ma’am, I am going to be honest with you. I am from out of state. I have no idea where we are right now. I do not have a cell phone with me to call for a cab, plus if I did, I don’t have any cab numbers with me. My friends were on the bus ahead of me, and we are supposed to meet at Mission Bay. What can we do to rectify this situation?”

There, I had laid it all out on the table. I am a simple person. I watched the bus driver, as she was studying my face in that wide bus mirror. The radio is playing in the background, but I couldn’t tell you what song, I only knew it was the only sound at that moment. She looks at her watch, looks back to me again. She raises her left hand and slaps it down on the steering wheel and lets out a laugh.

“Well, boy, it’s your lucky day! I guess I am going to get an hour’s more pay. I will take you on over to Mission Bay, but it gonna cost you.” My mental emergency brakes went on. I glanced around the bus real quick. Everyone is looking at everyone, not sure of what to do. I glance back to the mirror. “Someone gonna have to sing me a Commodore song on the way.” Again she lets loose with a big laugh.

I inwardly sigh – no problem. A song for the ride and I get to where I need to be. I start asking all the other guys. “Do you know a song by them? DO you? DO you?” All six guys tell me no, they have no idea of any Commodores song, let alone know one. I sighed. I only know one, so I let it loose and fill the bus with the sound of “You’re Once, Twice, Three Times a Lady” as the bus pulls out to the road. The bus driver is just smiling and singing along. I am not sure if I got all the verses in there, and I am not sure if all the words were correct, but after singing I made sure all the guys knew to be putting some money in her tip jar. I actually said to fill it up as it was about 2 inches from full. As we unloaded at Mission Bay, I was the last off, and placed a $5 bill over the now filled tip jar, and turned to the driver. “Thanks so much for helping me out.”

“Not a problem,” she said and gave me a hug.

I am happy. I am where I am supposed to be. Where is everyone else? A quick phone call found the other part of my group not knowing exactly where they were either, but they were bus-less. I told them basically that Joe & I were headed to Coaster’s, and they could meet us there, which they did within about 15-20 minutes.

Easter Bunny at the Mall

Easter is a holiday that I never really celebrated. It means a lot of different things to a lot of different people, especially depending on their respective religions. Myself being basically raised non-denominational christian, things seem fairly easy. You dress up nice in your suits and dresses, girls get to put on Easter hats, and the little white gloves. Everyone in the family goes to church - NO MATTER WHAT! as Step dad would threaten us. Then afterwards you had the big family dinner. For us, it usually was just our family as all us kids were still at home. I always hated having to wear a tie - and to this day I just about refuse to wear one, except where is needed out of strictest need or out of respect. Another scar from this holiday, but will share that another time. For now, let me take you back about 15 years ago or so. I had recently graduated from high school, my brother was like a Sophomore I think. Now think about the commercials back on TV back then... one in particular, the M&M commercial.

M&M had had this commercial on for a number of years, and the normal person would tell you it is "cute". It has all these kids saying "Thank you Mr. Easter Bunny", and they hold a package of M&M's in their hand(s) (prior to ripping it open and smearing them all over I am sure). What I consider just another wonderful marketing tool to get people to buy, of all things, baskets of candies for their kids on a holiday supposedly reflecting the death and arising of a major spiritual figure. How does candy fit in there? Let alone a damn rabbit that lays eggs, in hidden places, for kids to find. I raised rabbits for years, and they sure as shit never left behind no eggs.... but I am getting off topic...

One Saturday prior to the Easter weekend, my brother, his friend Jason, and I were "cruisin'" the mall, "scopin' for Betties" as we used to say. We had been there a couple hours and were pretty bored with what little action there was going on. Outside one particular card/curio shop, the managers had decided to have someone in a bunny outfit handing little candies out to kids as they pass the store (another marketing idea exploiting a religious holiday). First thing that pops into my head is that old M&M commercial... I have no understanding why, but it does. With a wicked gleam in my eye, I turned to look at Stuart and Jason. They had seen the rabbit costume when I had, and didn't understand what I was thinking.

" I Dare one of you to go up to that guy in the bunny outfit, " I said.

"And what?" Stuart asks. "Wave to him?"

"No," I stated. " You have to hug him and as loud as you can, say 'Thank you Mr. Easter Bunny!! Thank You!' and then walk on til you are around the corner."

Jason is struck with the giggles at this point and says no way is he doing it. So Stuart agrees after a few minutes negotiating. As he turns to head down that direction, I called him back.

"There is one more catch, " I added, that wicked gleam in my eye surely is blinding him now. "You have to walk to him, say the phrase, and walk on down around the corner ... as if you were a retard, or autistic, kid. I mean, the stumble/shuffle walk, the funny speech. Add drool for better presentation."

Stuart is just looking at me. Jason is laughing his ass off. Finally he says okay - I think there was some money involved with it too, but I don't remember for sure. Anyways, I have him wait until Jason & I are just across the walkway so we can see the whole thing, when here comes Stuart.

- A brief note about my brother Stuart. Back in the day, he came up with some crazy ass shit he would do, dared or not. One of these acts he had worked up was exactly what I was having him do. Stuart was always good at it, and had at times, did the drop and pretend to have seizure - in the middle of McDonald's no less, while I am trying to eat. He used to be a crazy mofo.

So here comes Stuart down, shuffling and stumbling, one arm tweaked across his chest, mouth opening and smacking shut with a little drool down the chin. He's still like 3 doors down and Jason and I are damn near busting our gut watching him. People are stopping and staring at him and they pass by, or as they exit the stores. Stuart stops about 15 feet from the Bunny guy, and gets this look of awe, or maybe it is fear, on his face and just stands there staring at the Bunny. The Bunnysuit has no clue what to do. At this exact moment there are no shoppers close, and he has this teenage appearing retard standing and staring at him. It was almost like an old western stand-off.

Finally the pressure breaks and Stuart starts loping/running towards the Bunny with his arms outstretched, hollering out loud "Thank you Mr. Easter Bunny!!! Thank You!!" and wraps up the Bunny in a huge bear hug. Bunny still does not know what to do, so he pats Stuart on the back. Stuart lets go after about 20 seconds (one of those hugs was like 15 seconds too long and embarrassing things). The Bunny actually hands Stuart one of the candies from the basket. Stuart looks at it - I think it was some sort of chocolate marshmallow thing, and looks at the Bunny and says something along the lines of "This not the candy you give on TV. I want M&M's. I want M&M's" He starts yelling this about 4 or 5 times. I am on my knees laughing so hard. All of a sudden. Stuart drops the candy, turns, and shuffles off the other direction like nothing happened.

By the time we caught up to him, Stuart had made it to a bench and was laughing as hard as he could as well. I couldn't believe he had pulled it off, but he did. And to this day, whenever I think of that commercial, or even see it as they still play it once in awhile, I bust out laughing thinking about the retard and the Bunny at the Mall.

Coffee

Coffee. Some people feel that this beverage is like "Nectar of the Gods". I know. I used to be one of them. Years ago when I worked in the medical billing industry, I used to drink cup after cup, pot after pot. I drank coffee like I drink beer now, except I drank a lot more coffee. Then one day, I had to break my habit of drinking coffee. Doctor said I had an ulcer, and weirdly enough, the coffee was irritating it and causing me severe abdominal pain. I even had to cut back on soda due to the caffeine (which was the major irritant according to the doctor). Man, how was I to survive without my wake up cup, my go-go juice, my need for speed rush at the end of the month? And no Soda to help replace wonderful coffee? I don't know exactly how I did it, but I quit drinking cold turkey. I never had DT's, or other type of physical reactions, but to walk into the local convenience store, and smell coffee brewing - ye gods, what a nightmare.

After several months of no coffee, my abdominal pains disappeared, and I considered myself "healed" and went for the pot of coffee at work one morning. Oh, I placed the full cup under my nose and stood in quiet Ecstasy and slowly inhaled the aroma. Oh, coffee bean, thou art my downfall. Thou make me shiver in delight and work ye magics in me. I exhaled and moved to take that first glorious sip, and felt the hot, flavored liquid cascade down my gullet. YES! This was the magic moment, and I am able to partake in it.

The rest of the day - I don't remember much about it. I know I enjoyed several cups of coffee, and I noticed I was suddenly making more trips to the restroom. I didn't recall that aspect of my drink relationship to have been happening before. After about a week of return to life as normal (if you can call mine that) I was working at the desk, when the Abdominal Pains returned to haunt me. And oh, did they return with a proud vengeance, and brought tears to my eyes for all the attention they provided me. Yes, Mr. Ulcer decided there was a large influx of coffee in the diet very recently. Again I had to quit drinking the heavenly flavored drink.

Since that time, it has been about 14 years. I still imbibe a cup every once in awhile. Far enough days in between to keep Mr. Ulcer happy. But I still get twisted in my emotions whenever I smell a fresh brew being made, and my mouth waters for just the smallest of tastes.

Know ye that this day, yon gods have blessed me, and I have again, partaken of their nectar. And DAMN! It was good today.

First Wreck

I think everyone remembers their first auto accident as an adult. Heck, I am sure some of you remember your first as a teen, and maybe as a child too. Anyways, I remember mine, and I don't think it is an easy thing to forget when someone dies.

It was about 15 years ago, and my wife was in the hospital as it was a day after my daughter (the first child) had been born. I was driving the second car I owned which was a 1980 Toyota Corolla wagon, 4-valve, stick shift, auto-nothing. It was about 9pm and I was headed home to get some sleep before heading to work in the morning. I was bout 3 miles from home traveling in the middle of three lanes headed north, doing 40-45ph. I had just checked the rear-view as I crossed over a major intersection, and the closest car was about 3 car lengths back on the left lane side of me. Nothing else was within blocks of me.

All of a sudden I feel a bump-push like someone had rear-ended me. I glanced up int he mirror and see some wreckage sliding on the road making sparks. "Shit. I think my bumper and back end has just fallen off," I am thinking to myself, when I glance left and see the other car, with the driver motioning me to pull over. I hurriedly pulled in ahead of her in the yellow emergency lane, and rushed back to make sure she was okay.

"I'm okay," she says, " But that fellow back there on the ground isn't I am sure." I looked back over to what I thought was the rear-end of my car, and realize it was a motorcyclist. By now there are a couple other people stopped and calling 911. I run out to the bike, and there is someone there trying to see if the guy is okay, so I head up traffic to help detour around since this is in the middle of the road. Police show up and send me to the curb, where I was talking to the lady of the other car. She had said this guy on the motorcycle was behind her, right on her bumper, when as she crossed the intersection, he decided to gun it and whipped out behind her, right onto the back of my car. Of course, if you've ridden bikes, a straight shot like that hitting someones bumper, very easy to close control, which is what happened.

So we are there over the course of a couple hours going over what happened with police, then detectives. The biker is rushed to the nearest hospital (which is where this lady worked). The biker, all they could tell us, was wearing tank top, shorts and flip-flops, so no protective gear at all, and that the prognosis was not good for him. I finally got around to looking at my car, and I had this indention on the bumper about 4 inches wide. I notice I cannot open the hatchback as the indention is up about 1/2 inch too much. "Great. Wonder how I am going to fix that," I remember thinking. I go on home, life returns to normal as I await any news about the accident. It never made TV news that night.

About 2 days later, I am at work and I get a personal call from someone I don't recognize, so I go ahead and take it. It is the other lady involved int he accident. I had mentioned she worked at the same hospital the biker was taken to... well, seems she had gotten a friend nurse to check the guy's charts and found out a couple things. 1) his Blood Alcohol was over 3.1% and 2) the doctors were not giving him much longer to live. Seems he had several severe internal injuries that hey could not fix or something. I thanked her for calling. About 2 days later she called me back to let me know he had passed away.

So, I have a dead guy, with no insurance info found on him or the body at the accident scene. I wait about a week, then take a sledge hammer to the bumper to knock down the indention so I can use the hatchback again. About 5 weeks later, an insurance adjuster comes to my door, and wants to look at my car. I show him, and told him that was the only damage, plus what I had done so I could open the hatch. He crawls under the back end, makes some notes, gets the other car info and hands me a check he wrote on the spot for $500.

I was like "What's this?"

He says,"That is the insurance settlement for the vehicle damage to your car from the accident that took place back on such n such date."

"Okay, I never though he had insurance." Wow, $500, right before Christmas - man I could use that! I am low paid, newly married, newborn at home.Then I think, for that much money, wouldn't I rather see that biker alive?

School Bully

I think every male I know has had some kind of monster bully in his life, predominately in the early grades of school. We see them portrayed everywhere in movies, cartoons, stories, and everyone can relate to knowing one, and even fewer admit to have been one - but everyone one knows how they make life hell for the "smaller sized" person. This is a story of one, so let's go back a few years, show you how old I really am....

Moving to Arizona was my way out of what I thought was a bad situation. Dad had passed away in early 1985, and I spent the next year in what I felt like, was hell for a teenager, living with my step mom and half sister (who was about 2 1/2). My Mother had remarried several years before, and since she had custody of my sister & brother, had moved to California, then on to Phoenix, AZ by this time. So calling Mom and asking to come live with her was what I thought the best thing to do. I came out that summer, and prepared to start as a freshman at a new high school being built in the district.

I don't know if you need this background information, but since some people compare me to Cliff Clavin, the trivial facts gotta come out sooner or later. This school district (Deer Valley Unified) is the largest school district in the continental US. It covers most of N. Phoenix, plus up to 25 miles north. In 1986, there was only 1 existing HS, and Goldwater (my school) was in the process. Goldwater would take only 1/2 of the districts 9th & 10th grades, and as each year progressed, would open each successive year. My sister was a senior when I started, so we did not attend the same school, rode different buses, etc. And as a side note, cuz I think I am proud of it, I am of the First Full Graduating Class from Goldwater. Sometimes I can be such a braggart. On with the story ...

Now being in the "Big City" was a bit different for me. The HS was only about 4 miles away - easy bike ride distance for early morning band practices - but the number of students was shocking. There was usually more than 30 kids in each of my regular course classes, where I was used to like 15-20. Of course, about 90% of the students knew of each other as they had attended Jr High together, and I being new and from out of state, felt very uncomfortable...I was never fast at making friends anyways. The first few weeks are typical - settle into a scheduled routine, pretty much figure out who to avoid, who the jocks are, who are the class gov't types, etc, etc. Me, I was a band geek. I didn't care what they called me, because I knew I was doing more than they, as I marched with a 45 pound marching bass held upright in front of me for 20 minute performances. I don't see football guys doing that... maybe carry a 3 pound bag of leather and air for 5 yards then put it down. Anyways I am getting off track....

New schools opening mean many new teachers coming into jobs. One such new teacher was my 3rd period, General Science teacher, Mrs. Kelly. She was from Scotland, and had an accent that you had to think twice when she was talking to you to understand what she was saying. She spoke slowly enough for general class teaching, but otherwise would slip and speed up. So, I'm new, the school is new, and my science teacher is new. And so is the trouble that started that 9th grade year.It was that fateful day in October of 1986 that I remember when the world went off-kilter, and I became open game to the carrion beasts. I sat in front of a giant of a student named George Duker. This guy stood 6'2" as a 9th grader, was on the JV football team, played almost last chair trumpet in band with me. We sorta knew each other. More like I knew he was a dumb-ass jock that had other people do his homework for him, and that he sucked playing trumpet. He knew me as excelling in all my classes, especially science, and decided that that particular day was to start my life of hell. The classroom is quiet as we are in the middle of a mid-term exam on what we have learned so far. I feel a pencil tap and a whisper "Ralph!". I know it is coming from George sitting behind me. I know he is wanting an answer for a question on the test. I ignore him. "Ralph!" I hear again just a tad louder. "Give me the answer to #2." I look up to see where the teacher is, she is sitting in the front middle at her desk, we are on the far right. Again a tap on the should er from behind. I shake my head no emphatically. "Ralph, you better help me with some of these answers. Now I need #2." I quickly risk a half-turn towards him and whisper back "No. Now leave me alone." As I turn back around, I feel a huge hand grasp my shoulder, and pull me backwards. About that time, Mrs. Kelly looks up and around - the hand drops. As she goes back to her grading, or whatever, the hand comes back up and the voice speaks, "If you don't help me, I am going to beat your ass after school."

What would any normal, scared, smaller-sized person do at this point? I think we all know. I bowed my head in resignation, then I thought, 'Fuck this. Let's see what can happen.' I stood up, turned around to face George square, and sentenced my life. In a voice loud enough to fill the room, so everyone could hear, "George, I am not going to give you any answer on this test. So you can quick poking me with your pencil, keep your hands to yourself, and leave me the fuck alone!" Yes, I really did say the F word. Mrs. Kelly of course stood up and was asking "What is going on here"

George turned redder and redder in the face, and I could sense it was time to move. I grabbed my backpack and test, and headed to the front. As I took that first step, I felt the shirt on my back start to stretch as we tried to go separate directions. George grabbed me and shoved me into the storage closets along the wall. I dropped the book bag and test. I turned, prepared to do battle to the death. My dad had taught me how to fight, and I was not immune to it in my younger years. All I could see was a mountain, with an arm going backwards. Then my salvation (or so I thought) came in the form of Mrs. Kelly. From out of nowhere, she appears next to George, reaches past him and grabs his ear. Yes, just like you see old grannies do to their misbehaving kids. Mrs. Kelly drops George to his seat, holding his ear to keep him from moving, and demands to know what is going on. So I told her. George was wanting me to give him answers on the test, and threatened to beat me up after school if I did not. George denied it all, but I think Mrs. Kelly knew from his academics what was really the truth. She escorted him out the door to the office. I never got in trouble for anything. The next day, class went on like normal, but George had been moved to another teacher's class.

So all is well that ends well? It didn't end there. George was in band also, and he tried to cause problems there, but I had enough back-up there was no trouble. He ended up dropping band because he would fail since he was playing football. We also had PE together, and in the winter wrestling was the agenda. At George's request, the coach put the two of us against each other. Yeah he was 6'2" and I was like 5'8", but I weighed over 200 (I was a butterball). I won that match, which only infuriated George more, especially when the coach asked me to join the wrestling team for the heavyweight division. I declined. For the next 2 years, I never had a class with George, we would only see each other passing the hallways, where he would always try to trip me or push me into the walls.

My senior year, my brother was a freshman at Goldwater. My brother was very small at this stage. He looked the size of a 5th grader, and I in pure Senior form, had been teasing him at home for weeks about how if my friends or I saw him we would stick him in a trashcan, etc. Pure terror to a freshman, and especially to him, as he thought we really would. The lockers in the halls were small squares about 2'x2' and stacked about 4 high. Stuart, my brother, had a top one, that he couldn't hardly reach. Turns out, George had a middle one, and they "traded lockers, and George found out Stuart was my brother. I don't know all the details to this day, but George agreed to "protect" my brother from my friends & I. George also ended up in my Gov't class for the year.

Nothing much happened that year. Stuart would run the other way anytime he saw me int he hall or around school. George never bothered me, anywhere, even in class. I let it all pass thinking maybe he finally matured. Bullies never do. We were in the final 2 months prior to graduating, when George decided it was time for revenge. One day after school, I was headed to the bike rack to get my 10-speed and head home. As I am wrapping the chain around the seat rack, I hear a voice ask me, "Got a problem there Ralphie?" I look up and see George. I quickly lock the lock and start to pull the bike out. "Looks like a couple flat tires, Ralphie." Sure enough, somehow both tires were flat. George drops his books and starts to close in on the 3 steps between us. I kind of tossed the bike to deter him, but he just shoved it aside. I am thinking, this is it - no one around, no teachers, I am getting my ass creamed. George shoves me hard in the chest and I stumble back about 3 steps. "I been waiting a long time for this Ralphie. Ever since 9th grade. you are dead meat." and he starts to pull back to swing. I don't know what to do at this point, my mind is blank, and all I can think of is I do not want to get hit by that punch. I turn as he swings and the punch hits my book bag, which has a few textbooks in it. This doesn't phase George, and he draws back again, reaching to turn me around with the other hand. As he turned me, I spun and kicked out as hard as I could...hoping for the groin shot. Instead I hear a scream from George, and he falls to the ground. I quickly step over to my bike, and start hustling down the road to home, never looking back.

For the next week, George had a crutch. Seems I missed his crotch by quite a bit, and ended up kicking his knee out. George never came near me the rest of the school year, and I ignored him as I always had done. Graduation came, and that was the last time I saw George. I figured he probably went to some Community College and ended up as some manual labor worker in some warehouse. Never cared. The 10 year reunion came up, and I attended. Friday night was basically a cocktail mixer, and I had went alone. After a couple hours of mingling, George sought me out. I had seen him earlier, and was just avoiding him as I did in school. He caught me by surprise as I was sitting at a table. After basic pleasantries, I asked him point blank - What do you want? George startled me by saying to apologize for harassing me for the years of HS. He said he never realized what a bully he had been until he got into college, and wanted to say sorry for those 4 years. I accepted, and asked him if the knee injury ever kept him from playing a football scholarship, to which he had said no. He had lost interest the senior year, and wasn't really good enough for scholarship anyways. We shook hands, and parted company. My buddy Scott comes up about then and asks what happened. I told him nothing, George and I were just reminding each other of the HS days.

Welcome to a Different Place!

YEs, this truly is a different place - this is my imaginarium! Here you will find stories that have been placed to disk from some of the darkest places of my mind. Some are true life experiences, and others just might be too good to be true! You decide! You critique! You applaude! YOU READ! Inspire yourself!!

This will only be updated as I have new material. As many of us know, the monster Writer's Block sometimes hits us, or LIFE does, and prevents the flow of creativeness. Watch my regular blog for updates to here.

PeacE