Douglas Coupland and What We All Need

Thursday, I think, I found myself under an inexplicable urge to reread Douglas Coupland's Microserfs. To clarify, it wasn't the wanting to reread Coupland which was inexplicable, but the intensity with which this urge presented itself. Enough so that I went into my former "office" (which is now more of a very badly organized storage room) and dug through piles upon piles of books I'd forgotten I had until I managed to find it.

My friend Christian first loaned me this book, while I was in college. He seemed genuinely shocked and chagrined at my confession that I'd never read it, and had taken it upon himself to remedy the situation. Since then, Coupland has become one of my favorite authors, and Microserfs, probably my favorite book.

I've discovered, in myself, that I tend to be a lot about community. Belonging, really. I think that's one of the major reasons I've become such a fan of Coupland. Microserfs, in particular, isn't really about the 90s, or about technology, or the Geek Culture -- even as it's about all those things simultaneously. Really, it's about belonging. As Dan, the book's narrator, realizes in a very short time about the new company they've all run off to start: "It's no longer about work. It's about all of us staying together."

About the time in my life that I left for college, I became a very transient person. Though I've always been very family-oriented, I no longer felt that I had roots. Or, rather, I felt that I needed to transplant those roots into a field of my own choosing. I never stayed in a single dorm room or apartment for more than a year -- and that single year was not by choice. Mostly, if I stayed anywhere for a semester it was only because it was impossible to move once school had begun. After getting married, we lived for a short time in an apartment in Jackson, MI, then moved to LA while I continued my education in film. We moved back to Michigan, occupying, not counting the short stay with my sister, no fewer than four homes. We left there shortly after our first two kids were born and moved out to Northern New York, where we've only moved one other time -- from my wife's parents' house into a house of our own.

Roots can be funny things.

However, even in the transience, there has always been within an intense desire for community: to be part of something. I was raised in a close family; family is part of who I am as a person. It is as much part of my personality as my sense of humor and dislike of pop music. Community is a part of my DNA.

In college, it was manifest in my choice of friends and interests. Like Microserfs. It's worth mentioning that most of my college friends work with computers or in some technological field or another. I, meanwhile, couldn't code a three-digit calculation in BASIC. I told myself instead that working in radio and television counted as "geek," and that I fit into my adopted cultural niche by virtue of my nerdy obsession with media. And I guess that, to some extent, I did. More importantly, though, I fit in with my friends. Books like this one were actually more than merely good reading: they were something to talk about. They were part of our cultural identity: something that helped to make us who we were as a group. Though they could talk circles around me when it came to almost anything else technological (computers, graphics, gaming), we were on a level playing field culturally, and we had the benefit of genuinely liking one another. I'll get more in-depth with my various circles of college friends at another time, but for now the main thing is the simple understanding that it was the community which was important.

Ultimately, each of us belonged to something. The things we did, the decisions we made, were all run through the filter of The Group. This is not to say The Group had any type of veto power; it was enough to know that they cared about those decisions.

Community is not about place any longer. For me, and many others of my generation, it never has been. I'm among the first of the Internet generations: I grew up with the ability to connect with those outside my physical circle of influence, thanks to a simple BBS called Prodigy. My college life was defined by this same ability, but on a much grander scale: BBS sites, chatrooms, websites(!), internet gaming. We found we could keep track of our own little Group, even as members moved on to greener pastures, thanks to a BBS set up by some within our circle (MIB: Messages In Black). The circle was widened, and at the same time, brought closer.

Chatrooms and BBS became blogs and forums. Blogs and forums became Social Networking. All of it driven by the common human thread: the intrinsic need to be a part of something.

Microserfs is humanity on the brink of understanding the truest definitions of community. Even as it is a story about one man's search for family, it is also about his dealing with a world slowly going Global Village. In a story that takes place in 1993-1994, it's worth noting that one of the book's characters, Abe, remains a vital part of Dan's community, even though the two live hours away from one another, and communicate mostly via email.

Prophesies of the decade to come, perhaps.

Reading (and writing) with the senses (fka Sensual Reading)

(originally posted elsewhere, years ago, but since edited and updated)



I'm imagining myself sitting in a little dive just off the highway. It's one of those places in which you can smell the grease in the fries, and have to wring out your hamburger bun. It used to be an ice cream parlor. And though I rarely find myself at one of its corner tables anymore, it is still marked in memory as one of my favorite places to write.


As I sit at my kitchen table imagining, I remember the view from where I sat: old men discussing the weather, and its effect on their joints; the ladies in the back, spooning mashed potatos -- the kind with the dark, dark gravy -- and Superman ice cream.

I never brought my laptop to this little diner, prefering always the feel of pen against paper. In fact, as I write this now, I am ever mindful of not smearing my ink -- quite a task for a left-handed writer.
But there is method, as they say, in this madness. Writing is an experience of the senses. If the senses -- all of them -- are not involved, then you can only find half the story.


But perhaps I am old-fashoned.

I have in my posession an illustrated edition of Tennyson from 1885. It is well-worn. Okay -- it's in tatters. It is unlikely it would fetch much on Ebay. But it is the pride of my collection.

Reading, you see, is also an experience for the senses.

My Tennyson has layers: a path to travel before reaching the contents. You first blow the dust off the cover: it's an image so old it's a cliché, but it is no less necessary. You lift the book to your nostrils. The musk of age travels to your brain, and the smell gives the words context. And, finally, you turn the first page.


There is a feeling elicited by a bound book that an eBook -- even as they become slimmer and more convenient -- will never touch.

Not that there is anything wrong with eBooks -- anything that gets more people reading can only be a boon to society.  And I'm not saying I don't have a weird sort of love affair with my kindle. Let's face it: it's handy to have around, and sometimes, the words are all you need.

And sometimes, the book, itself, is part of the experience.  I think of Elizabeth Kostova's "The Historian."  Much of the book takes place in libraries, with the main character poring over old diaries and papers and various bound histories. Is it an enjoyable read on the Kindle? Probably. But, to me, to read such a book in an electronic format is to lose some of that feeling of "there-ness."  


When I read "The Historian," I'm holding a thick volume, and smelling that scent that hides just beneath the cover. It is as if I, too, am sitting in that darkened room, reading the account of the main character, in the form in which she left it. I'm there with her, turning page after page, feeling the grain of the paper beneath my fingertips. Hearing the scratch of the page as I turn to the next.


That sound; the weight and smell; the edge of the paper, digging ever so slightly into the creases in my fingers: All of it, the book's way of making its presence known. 

Think of your closest friends -- not the people you know from chatrooms or internet forums; the people with whom you can enjoy the quiet moments. Is it their words that bring you comfort and joy? Or is it their presence? Is talking on the phone the same as walking together through a park?  The words may be the same -- but that sweet, blessed companionship can only come, at its fullest, when you are together.

The obituary for Print has been written more times than I can count. The book, we're told, is dead. It just doesn't know it yet. Book stores are allowing now-empty shelves to gather dust, as the owners head off to more certain pastures.  What a shame.

I love words. I could read words, sentences, stories all day. And for that, certainly, the Kindle, or my laptop, or even, occasionally, a recording will suffice. But for the best a story has to offer, in those quiet moments of reading and reflection, I'll take a the weighty presence of a hardcover every time.

How I almost got strip-searched in Canada (and why it would totally have been worth it, anyway)



Thing o' beauty, isn't it? (image borrowed... or
outright stolen... from  A Good Beer Blog)

 Post payday weekend at my house often means a trip to CJ's in Potsdam to try out another craft brew selection. While they may not have the gigantic selection of stores in more metro areas, the variety of local and micro brews makes it well worth braving the occasional group of hipster douchebags from the local college.

When I got there last night, I was thinking IPA.  There were a couple black IPAs I had wanted to try out, and was examining bottles when my wandering eyes saw a familiar logo.

Could it be? It was! A 1.9 pint of Hobgoblin from Wychwood Breweries. I looked over to the left, and to my delight, found an entire 6-pack (and a half: one of the nice things about CJ's is that you can mix and match to try out new brews). Granted, the import was a bit pricier than one of the local brews... but you know, I don't actually indulge all that often, and by golly, it was the Hobgoblin. 

Sure, I COULD have just taken
this picture myself. But I didn't.

A little smokey, with notes of chocolate and toffee, this is a deep ruby ale that pours with a thick, creamy head.  It's also as smooth -- and heavy -- as Guinness. A pint will fill you, but you won't notice it until you get there. 

It's also an excellent accompaniment for various meat dishes like Bangers and Mash - which is how I was first introduced to the brew.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.  I actually discovered this beer as a happy accident, after a long, drawn out ordeal, and a last minute decision.

Going to Canada

When my friend Randy (that he and I share the same name will become important to this story) told me he was flying from Colorado to Upstate New York to umpire a Little League Tournament in Cooperstown, we immediately made plans to meet. 

Fellow political bloggers at the time (we've both since begun our road to recovery, and are one another's sponsors in Politics Anonymous), we'd never actually met in person.  And, though he was something of a world traveller (he'd been everywhere from Italy to Japan as part of his job - and again, this is kind of important), he'd never actually been to Canada.  As a resident of Northern New York, and working at a radio station serving a market that spans both Northern New York and Eastern Ontario, Parts of Canada's Seaway are practically my backyard; but I'd never gotten the chance to just tour around and appreciate the area. Plus, we both kind of wanted a Cuban cigar.



The Ogdensburg-Prescott International Bridge
Go here.


After several calls, the cigar thing was kind of turning into a bust, but we decided to cross over anyway. I had my passport card; Randy had his stamped-up passport, and we were good to go.  We crossed the bridge in the late afternoon, and it was then, as we waited in line for Customs, that I started piecing together our predicament. 

"Y'know," I said, "I've never actually been pulled into Canadian Customs before."

"Is anyone?" Actually, it was a valid question.

"We're about to be,"

It had occurred to me that we were two guys, about 20 years apart in age, with almost the same first name. In fact, our names are slightly different in spelling (my "Randall" has two 'l's to his one). It wasn't much, I thought, but taken as a part of the whole picture, it could be an issue.  On top of that, he was, as I mentioned previously, from Colorado, and had a passport full of fun and interesting stamps.  Stamps from places like Malaysia. 


Plus, I was wearing a shirt
similar to this one.

 Sure enough, it didn't take many questions before the guard at the window nicely asked us to pull the car over and come inside. FYI: as much as I will always champion honesty as the best policy, the correct answer to "how do you know each other" is apparently NOT "the internet."

At least we could honestly tell them we weren't coming to meet anyone. I'm also extremely happy we had presence of mind to say, when asked, that we were coming over to hang out and hit a bar with decent beer, and NOT to that we wanted to get Cuban cigars.

Fortunately, since Canada customs almost never brings people in (they rarely need to: by the time you leave the booth, they already know whether you've ever committed a crime, the last time you were in Canada, and how long it's been since you've had sex), we didn't have to wait long before being called to the desk. While officials ran our passports through an alphabet of national and international agencies (and possibly our parents), we were treated to live entertainment in the form of an impromptu Q&A session to determine our continued presence in the country.

"You met on the internet?"
"Yes."
"On a website for political activists."
(crap.)
"Where are you from?"

"New York"
"Colorado"

"Have you always lived there?"
"Yes."
"No."
"Crap! Neither have I!"

The interview was over. We waited.

This waiting has interesting effects on people. I knew darn well I didn't have anything on me that would be illegal or get me in any kind of trouble. Yet, I still had to stop myself from checking. At least in front of the guy. I'm pretty sure I checked my pockets when he turned his head, though.

We get on with it

The check came back. We were deemed harmless. We went on our way. After that was pretty uneventful. We drove through downtown Prescott, ON, continued up King Street, left Prescott, went through various towns with "welcome" signs informing you that, if you fail to change the battery on your smoke detector, you are sure to die a fiery, suffocating death. Evidently this is a real problem, and if I may, I'd like to take this opportunity to suggest that Canadians consider not only batteries, but also to stop building their houses out of match heads and gasoline. At some point, we landed in Brockville.



This is what it looks like. Find it as fast as you can.

 For various reasons, largely having to do with my not knowing my way around and unwillingness to look at a map, the cigar thing was indeed a bust, so we parked and walked downtown Brockville looking for a place to eat. My companion had his heart set on fish and chips, and I was determined to find good beer. What we found was an English Style Pub called The Georgian Dragon. Fish and Chips? Why, yes.  Yes there was.

A tiny little place with a mostly brick interior and friendly staff, The Georgian Dragon ("The Dragon?" I should ask the locals what they call it for short. Or is it too cool to shorten?) is the perfect place for a quiet drink and excellent food.

And yes, the food is excellent. My friend got his fish, and I asked the waiter what he recommended. He said Bangers and Mash, and I took him up on it.  For drinks, my friend asked for and received something local: a pale ale, I believe. I asked for something dark.



While you can google pics of
Bangers and Mash, they're made
a little different everywhere... and
nothing on Google does them justice.

 "You want the Hobgoblin," the waiter said.

And yes. Yes, I did.

I've visited many restaurants, pubs, taverns and bars. I've found something to enjoy about each of them. But for the overall atmosphere, the ambiance, the food (my Heavens, the fricking food!), and the beer selection, The Georgian Dragon may well be my new favorite place.  The fact that they also introduced me to a new favorite beer doesn't hurt either.

Sad, when it comes right down to it, that I haven't been back since. But I'm looking for an excuse. So, you know, if you're ever in the area, and need somebody to show you around...

"At Least I'm Not Like All Those Other Old Guys"

So, I was driving the minivan home from work, blasting Kid Rock's "Bawitdaba," with my windows rolled down, when it suddenly occurred to me: Yeah -- I'm that guy.  The guy with four car seats in the back but a CD case filled with the kind of music that makes even my wife cringe a little.

Understand, I grew up on Crashdog and Vengeance Rising -- much to my mother's chagrin.  I still recall with fondness the day she walked in on my teenage self listening to "Cashists, Fascists, and Other Fungus" and shouting at me.

"They're yelling at you!"
"It's Crashdog, Mom. You bought me the album."
"But they're yelling at you."
"Yes, that's why I bought it.  I don't remember paying you to yell at me!"

This argument, it should be needless to mention, did NOT win me points with Mom.

At some point, that kid grew up.  And much like back then, I'm a very respectful guy, until you tell me what I'm supposed to be listening to.  I suppose much of my generation has outgrown the drums and the screaming, and the crunching guitars.  To be sure, my musical tastes certainly stretch far beyond this, but at heart, I'll always be that kid in the mosh pit.  In spirit anyway.

I've been coming to terms recently with the fact that I am getting older.  I suppose at some point when I wasn't looking, the illusion of immortality wore off -- but I've never gotten used to the idea that I'm supposed to be an adult now.  I'm still not entirely sure what that even means.  I have a wife and four kids.  A job and bills.  Cars that break down, and responsibilities I don't remember signing on for.  And I'm thankful every day for all of it.  So is that being an adult?  Or does it mean that I'm supposed to leave behind pieces of my individuality, too; my daydreams that I turn into stories, my intense desire to find humor where most people find frustration, simply because I'm afraid of what will happen to my sanity if I take those things too seriously?

These are the questions that crop up as I prepare for work and my overweight, 33-year-old visage glares back at me from the mirror, while I studiously ignore the gray hairs I've long since given up pulling out of my goatee.  I dress myself in t-shirts and the occasional polo, having decided years ago that life's too short for neckties.  If I go out in public, my middle-age-guy uniform consists of a polo shirt, camo shorts and skater shoes -- like a wearable mullet for the aging Nirvana generation.

So, yeah... on the inside, I'm pretty much the same as I've always been (maybe -- hopefully -- a little wiser), while on the outside it's a struggle to maintain a shirt-size you can still buy at Wal-Mart.  I have a bad back and a trick knee -- and another knee that just seems to not like me very much.  This was all brought home to me a couple years ago at the last metal show I caught, in Allentown, PA.

I should start by saying that, when my friend asked me if I wanted to go in on some tickets, I was beyond excited.  I hadn't been to a hardcore/metal concert since college, and not only was Demon Hunter -- a current favorite -- headlining, but there was the added enticement of college nostalgia: Living Sacrifice was getting back together, and THIS was also their reunion tour.  The fact that, of the 4 guys in the car, I was the senior by more than 10 years didn't really bother me so much.  Didn't really occur to me, in fact, except to silently note that a post-show beer run was absolutely out of the question.

And then the first of the four bands hit the stage, and the mohawked and pierced college kids hit the pit. That's when I became suddenly and uncomfortably aware of who I was.  Ten, fifteen years ago, I was one of those kids, dodging feet and elbows, planting one boot on the hardwood, as my head went its own way and my arms pushed and pulled with the crowd.

My first thought in Allentown: "Somebody's gonna lose an eye."

I remember when I was younger, there were always guys on the fringes of the pit.  Those guys who were too old, or tired, or out of shape to mix it up with the rest of us.  These guys were always a little mythic to me (at least, that's the way I remember it now).  There they stood, just on the outside.  And while they weren't in the dust and blood with the rest of us, they still rocked out.  And not only that, but kept it just a little safer for everyone. I don't know that I fully understood it back then, but in Allentown, I joined those noble ranks. Maybe my knees and back couldn't deal with the pit.  Maybe I was too out of shape to mix it up.  But I could stand at the outside, keeping celebrants from being trampled; shoving overzealous revelers back into the throng, and making sure that, if somebody had to catch an elbow, it wouldn't be the wallflowers and teenage girls behind me.

Am I experiencing an early midlife crisis?  Is my love of loud music may way of clinging to my lost youth?  I guess there are as many answers to that as there are overpaid therapists.  All I know is, I get to work on time, I love my wife and kids, and if my music's not pissing off the old ladies in the car next to me, it's not loud enough.

Now get off my lawn.

Paul Harvey... Good day!

Harvey received the Medal of Freedom in 2005.

It was on this date in 1976 that Paul Harvery launched his successful news spinoff, "The Rest of the Story."  So, I thought it was only appropriate, on the official "The Rest of the Story Day," to pay it our respects.

I literally grew up on Paul Harvey's radio program, and in fact would call it one of the two most significant factors in my ultimately becoming a broadcaster. 

My dad owned a '72 Oldsmobile Cutlass -- ugly, matt gray-green Rolling Awesome -- with the original AM-only stereo.  My memories associated with this car include fighting with the small front window, struggling to get the door open, and listening to talk radio with my Dad.  The interior was an aromatic blend of spilled coffee and dead moths, but I loved those drives, listening to Paul Harvey (or Rush Limbaugh) and having conversations with Dad about the things we were listening to.

Also, at least it was in better shape than this one.

 The news would come on, and then, Harvey's distinctive, homely cadence as he introduced us to "the Rest of the Story."  And I would wait through the entire story, for the identity of the story's subject, for that little twist of the familiar.  And then came "page two," and before you even knew what was happening, Harvey had woven such an engaging and interesting story that, by the time he told you about the Bose speaker system he was pitching, you were ready to buy a dozen of them -- and you still weren't sure whether he was actually selling them or if they just happened to be part of the story. 

I mourned with many when Paul Harvey passed away in 2009, and I'll never forget him.  I'll never forget that old piece of crap car, held together as much by rust as by metal, or those afternoons with my Dad and that AM radio.

Something something something... Aaaaaafricaaaaa...

I love music.  Always have.  I was raised in a house where there was always a radio on, whether it was in the kitchen as my mom prepared meals, or our rooms as we cleaned or relaxed, or in the garage, working on some project or another with my dad.  No matter where we went, music went with us.  When the radio wasn't on, we were singing, my sister leading my brother and I in various choruses, teaching us how to harmonize.  But always, there was music.

I grew up in the 80s and early 90s.  My mom and sister always listened to contemporary hits radio (chr), while my dad was locked in to the local oldies station.  Actually, that's one reason I chose a career in radio, but that's a story for a different day. The point is, whether I wanted it or not, I was exposed to a variety of styles, and got to witness the evolution of those styles into new and different types of music.  It's largely thanks to that, that I now have vastly eclectic musical tastes.

This morning, as I was driving to work, I popped in a CD I'd made of music from 1980-85.  I started thinking about the songs I chose for the compilation.  Though I'll tell anyone who asks that I love new wave, there really isn't any to be found on that disc.  Much of it, in fact, was decidedly adult contemporary: The Alan Parsons Project, Thompson Twins, Cyndi Lauper, Genesis... and, yes, Toto. 

I enjoy the music, certainly, but part of this, I find, has much more to do with nostalgia.  It's a feeling I get of being a child again, surrounded by family, still full of wonder.  More than that, though, the blessed glimpses back in time. 

I find that, as I get older, my memory fades.  I lose bits and pieces of my childhood and am left with disjointed anecdotes where there once were memories.  But when I hear "Eye in the Sky," for example, or "Hold me now," I get ... not movies, really, but still frames.  Partial pictures and images without context.  A phone hanging on a kitchen wall.  A Roy Lichtenstein print.  Clues to a period I can barely remember.  I know I saw these things, but can't remember where or why.

Other memories are more clear: listening to Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart" while my childhood self sat in a car, and remembering that Tommy James and the Shondells' "Crimson and Clover" was on right before, and Sly & the Family Stone's "Everyday People" is coming up next.  Being in my sister's room and listening, with her, to the Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams."

I love my life.  I have a fantastic wife, great kids, a job I enjoy.  But there's stress, too.  Bills and responsibilities.  Nostalgia is a security blanket.  I play the music driving to work and, even if I can't grasp the details, remember that, before adulthood, there was a small boy who found it magical.

Imagine my surprise when violence turned to to be, occasionally, the answer

I believe I indicated in an earlier post that, while my sharp tongue often got me into trouble, it only sometimes got me out again.  Honestly, I can only think of two times in my life where I was subjected to what I would consider real bullying, which happened during my 5th year.  And honestly, even these incidents, as you'll see, were pretty tame by comparison to what many kids go through.  This lack of antagonists -- at least, in the physical sense -- wasn't due to any innate coolness on my own part.

To the Victor, Baby!

By all accounts (and I know you'll find this hard to believe), I was a bit of a dork.  Really.  If I had pics online, I'd prove it.  I walked funny, my head bobbing up and down like a freakishly tall duck.  I was always a little tall for my age, but really, though broad-shouldered, I was also pretty lanky.  In short, nobody's idea of a tough guy.  To add insult to injury, I was smart, and with a tendency to prove it every chance I got.  Looking back, winning the Spelling Bee may not have been the best move as far as self-preservation was concerned.  On the other hand, I won a Brand Spanking New college dictionary, with my name engraved on the cover (seriously, and people thought I was a dork!  I know, right?)!

You'd think having the biggest dictionary in class would earn a guy some respect.  Not so much.  The first of my run-ins -- and honestly, the one that hurt the most, emotionally, happened in the 5th grade.

I've always been a pacifist of sorts.  It wasn't as though I had anything in particular against violence, per se, I just thought fighting over the things kids were fighting over in those days was kind of stupid.  I never liked fighting, and in fact, when the other kids would circle around a pair of dust-raising boys in the midst of battle (consisting mostly of rolling around on the ground together and not landing any hits that I ever saw), I was the kid trying to break it up and get them to shake hands.

Still can't believe people thought I was a dork.

So the first incident of bullying I can really recall happened after I stood up to a friend of mine. Or, somebody I had thought of as a friend before the incident, and later befriended again.  Neither here nor there. What happened was this:

Not Zach.

This "friend" of mine, Kevin, was belittling a classmate during one recess.   I can't remember all the details.  Zach (who, yes, we called "Lego Maniac") wanted to play with us, and Kevin didn't want him to.  The dialogue ratcheted up at some point, at which time I told Kevin to leave him alone, and then walked away.  As I walked Kevin followed behind, kicking me.  It wasn't a major event, bullying-wise, except for two things.  One, as a friend, I was deeply hurt by his behavior (most people, I didn't care about one way or the other, but I've always revered my friends).  And second, this was the first time I remember ever hitting back.

Actually, I turned around and backhanded him, knocking him flat on his rear -- and to this day, I'm unsure about whether or not I meant to do it.  Either way, he got in trouble -- he was used to it.  I got a slap on the wrist -- more discipline from school than I was ever used to.  And by the next week, we were friends again, and Zach was more or less permanently a part of our group.

The second incident I remember had to do with a more ongoing issue with, oddly, another Kevin. This Kevin had been held back at least once (I still suspect twice -- he was that big, and that dumb).  So we don't get confused, we'll call him K2.  This guy was your classic small-time bully, not particularly to me, but to pretty much anyone who wasn't a close, personal friend.  He wasn't often violent, and when he was, it was mostly shoves or trips.  Mostly, he liked to point and laugh at people, steal their sandwiches, and generally make a nuisance of himself.  I don't remember him ever blacking anyone's eye or giving too many wedgies, but it was mostly because he outweighed most of us by about 40 lbs and when he said "Jump," you apologized for not reading his mind and jumping sooner.

Until the Speed Ball incident.

Also, the torture device of choice
for a certain 5th-grade bully.

If you remember anything about elementary school, you probably remember a lot about recess.  Like the fact that, when it rained, "recess" consisted of the kids finding things to do in the classroom while the teacher more or less ignored them.  One of the most popular indoor activities was the Speed Ball: a projectile on a two strings that would rocket toward the opposite player when you tugged your ropes outward.  It was like catch, but without skill, or the tendency to break things.

The toy was so popular that a good portion of indoor recess was spent waiting for your turn with it.  Really, it was that spinning the globe around for an endless 15 minutes.  So, like most of my classmates, I waited in line.  On this day -- a day when the teacher happened to have things to do outside of the classroom -- K2 was in line behind me, and I had not yet taken my turn.  I was, however, next.  So K2 decided he was done waiting.

"I'm next," he said.

"I've been waiting," I said.  "You're after me."

K2 didn't like being told no.  The conversation broke down from there.  He said things.  I'm fairly certain I said less-than-complimentary things about him.  He responded by pushing my face into the oncoming Speed Ball.

I haven't really explained everything about this toy.  Not only was it propelled by one kid pulling two ropes in opposite directions, it was also made of plastic and, depending on who was doing the pulling, also pretty doggone fast.  In this case, fast enough to tear a small strip of skin off my cheek.  Really.  I still have a small scar.

My own response to this incident was... less than pacifist.  And this time, definitely on purpose.  I grabbed him by the shirt, lifted up and out with every ounce of strength I had, and threw him over a desk.

Okay, I'm probably romanticizing that a bit.  More likely, I pushed him very, very hard, and he simply fell over a desk.  But hey, it's my childhood, and I'll remember it how I want.

I didn't get a standing ovation from my classmates.  K2 and I didn't become the best of friends, nor did he develop a new respect for me.  But he never bothered me again.

Of course, the real question remained: was I left alone because I had proven I could stand up for myself, or simply because I wasn't worth the effort.

I came by it honestly.



That's me, in the sweater.  Years later, this photo was fodder
for all manner of family ribbing.  At least I was able to blame
my mother.



 I grew up in a house filled with laughter.  My father has always been quick-witted, and has a terrific sense of humor.  Though my mom would often frown in mock chagrin at some of the racier jokes and puns he would run by my younger brother and I, it was always with an air of joyful exasperation. 





It wasn't Leave It To Beaver by any stretch: my dad has always been just as ready with the advice as Ward Cleaver, but I don't think you'd ever see ol' Ward flash a mischievous grin at The Beav before playfully flipping June the bird.  It wasn't that my parents weren't careful to make sure my sister, brother and I were properly trained and disciplined; I think it's more that they recognized us as smart kids with enough intelligence and social acumen to understand such "adult" kidding in context.



You had to have thick skin to grow up in my house.  Life was hard, and we survived it through our collective ability to laugh at ourselves -- or, to be more accurate, each other.  Through joblessness and varying degrees of poverty, right on through to the better days, we had our Faith, each other, and our laughter.  My dad, who, as long as I can remember, was a touch overweight (and, it's time to be honest, that's how my kids will remember ME as well), had long since elevated self-deprecation to an art form on the level of Michaelangelo.  But when that sharp tongue turned outward, man, you had to be ready.  In my early teenage years, my Dad and I would literally spend up to an hour every day just trading good-natured insults.  From the outside looking in, it must have seemed very dysfunctional -- but nothing made my day like hearing Dad just busting up at some quick jab I'd gotten over on him.  And really, nobody ever got hurt.  It's hard to take something personally when you're crying with laughter.



Troublemaker.





More than mere fun, these little sessions were lessons, too -- though I'm not sure my Dad quite intended for us to use them the ways we often did.  My mouth often got me into -- and back out of -- trouble, particularly with older peers.  I wasn't taught how to back down; if I believed I was right, I simply went for it, and damn the consequences.  Off-hand, I can think of at least one situation where I was spared a backyard beating purely on the merit of sheer nerve.  I was, I think, 14 or so, and our 17-year-old neighbor had caught a frog (it's amazing the circumstances you CAN recall, versus those you can't), and this had somehow led to an argument.  He asserted his superiority as small-town 17-year-old boys do, and I responded by insulting his intelligence, his masculinity, and, if I remember correctly, his mother.  He clenched his fist, and I discovered new and clever ways of calling him a girl.  He laughed, dropped his hands, and said, "You got guts, kid."  I never had a problem with him again.



I wasn't always so lucky.

(note: this is part one of an ongoing - and occasional - series of stories and anecdotes about my life: who I was, and what made me who I am.  For anyone that cares.  Or, hopefully, just enjoys reading it.)