I have a buddy. He can be strange sometimes. We love him for it. I don’t want to give you his full name, because that would be rude. Let’s just call him Kranny.
You know who you are, Kranny.
To say that there are a wealth of ridiculous stories surrounding Kranny would be very true. It would also be ignoring the fact that there are a wealth of ridiculous stories surrounding me. I haven't told you very many, but I may have mentioned some. They're the kind of stories that we all have. Various adventures with friends where a certainly level of ridiculousness is bound to come into play. Kranny and I just seem to have more than our fair share.
Kranny and I went to high school together. I've actually known him quite a long time. But the story that's on my mind today is a specific one. It was 1986. It was a time when I was very active in my church youth group, which meant that I hung out with a lot of hot girls. And I was able to eat lunch with them in the cafeteria at school.
One day, Kranny sauntered by and caught my attention. He's a big guy. Shorter than me, but stocky with broad shoulders and a certain square-like shape to his features. He's constantly grinning. And he was grinning today as he motioned for me to come over to him.
I left the lunch table and went over to where he was standing. Just out of sight from the rest of the group. He greeted me with furtive glances, as he stared back at my friends at the table.
"Who's she?" He asked.
I looked to where he was pointing. A petite blonde. "That's Marci." I said. "She goes to my church."
"She's cute." Kranny was looking at me and grinning. There was a pause. Sometimes with Kranny I get that feeling you get with an overly affectionate and enthusiastic pet. The kind of pet who's always grinning and expecting something in return. I subdued the impulse to pet him.
"Yes." I confirmed. "What would you like me to do about it?"
"Introduce me."
"No problem." I relaxed a bit. I had been fearing that we were heading into the realm of intricate shenanigans. But he just wanted an introduction, and that I could handle. I turned to walk back to the table.
"But wait!" Kranny stopped me. "I don't want it to be weird."
This is where things started to unravel. Please understand that I was no better in high school about talking to girls than the average comic collecting geek. The church youth group taught me that I could be in the same room with girls and have conversations with them without the world ending. But I still had no idea how to approach one romantically. And I knew that Kranny had in the past. So I was kind of looking forward to learning from him as I watching him handle the situation with Marci. I was crestfallen when I realized we would be taking the bumbling "Fred and Barney" route to solving the situation.
"Okay." I turned back to him. "What would you like to do?"
"Introduce me to the whole group." Kranny had already devised a plan.
"I can do that. No problem."
"Only don't use my real name." He continued.
I started to get a little confused. I was having trouble following his logic. Someday, I'll introduce you to Kranny and you can have trouble following his logic too. Then you'll know what it's like.
"Okaaaay. What name should I use?"
Kranny looked me square in the eye and said "Steve Austin".
...
"Steve Austin?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"You want to be introduced as the Six Million Dollar Man?" I asked.
"Not as the bionic dude!" Kranny laughed at my silliness. "But Steve Austin. I always liked that name and no one remembers that show anyway."
I'm fairly certain people remember that show. I'm sitting here in 2013 and I know for a FACT that people remember that show. In 1986, it certainly wasn't high on everyone's radar but all the guy friends I knew certainly remembered the show. We lived and breathed that show not even ten years ago.
But... Kranny knew girls better than I did. And she was a girl. And maybe girls didn't remember geeky stuff like favorite TV shows from childhood. Maybe this would work!
I acquiesced. We walked over to the table full of youth group friends and I introduced my pal, Steve Austin.
One of the male youth group members, Brian, slapped his face and shook his head in disbelief.
People muttered general niceties and proceeded to be weirded out. Our plan was not going so well. I started to worry that this incident would impact my general credibility. Kranny sat next to me, smiling and grinning and smiling and trying to make small talk with Marci. Marci picked at her salad and refused to look up at either of us.
I was beginning to think she saw through our carefully crafted ruse. Astonishingly enough. In Kranny's defense, Steve Austin did seem to hook up a lot on that show week after week. Still... maybe we should have gone with Evil Kneivel.
After Kranny was done failing at trying to chat up my friend. He said his goodbye and made his way off to class. Marci was more than a little annoyed with me. "What was that supposed to be, Chuck!?"
"Errrr.... well, my friend just wanted to meet you"
Marci stood up, gathered together her books and her purse, picked up her lunch tray and turned around. After two steps she whirled back at me:
"I KNOW who the stupid Bionic Man is, Chuck!"
She made her way off, leaving me feeling a little foolish at the table.
But, as foolish as I may have been in that moment, I do remember distinctly thinking that she was wrong about one thing. Steve Austin was the Six Million Dollar Man. Lindsey Wagner was the Bionic Woman. There was no 'Bionic Man'. Common mistake.
Later that day, Kranny asked me how it went. Can you guess what I told him?
Thanks,
DCD
Showing posts with label Silly stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Silly stories. Show all posts
Friday, May 3, 2013
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
The Confrontation
As I may have mentioned before, we've started taking the kids to a church youth group on Wednesday nights. All three kids. It's a way of getting them out of the house and social with a group of friends that may turn out to be a positive influence.
A happy side effect to this is that Lorie and I have started to have dates. We had forgotten what it was like to be alone together, as it only happens once or twice a year. So while the kids are at youth group, we've been sneaking out to various restaurants and just being together.
Last Wednesday, we went to a restaurant and had a nice meal together. Afterwards, I dropped Lorie off at the house to get started on some endless addition chores, and then took off for the church to pick up the kids.
This particular church is very popular for their youth group program. The place was swarming with people. Teenagers and older kids of all sizes were everywhere while I stood in the lobby waiting for Alex. My seven-year-old has joined the program for younger kids and they get released to parents, rather than just let go like the older kids. I stood there, clutching my kid-claim-ticket, trying to hold down my frustration at being out so late on a work night and having to wait. I have issues with patience.
The parents waiting with me began to get funneled towards the double doors, only one of which was open, in order to step up to a desk, present a claim ticket, and get their kids. I was second in line, behind a much shorter grandmother type woman obviously there for her grandkid.
The place was controlled chaos. I was uncomfortable.
The woman in front of me presented her ticket, got her kid, got the kid's coat on in a lingering process of awkwardness that took forever, and finally got ready to go. But instead of walking out into the normal flow of traffic to make her escape, this woman swiveled in place and began to walk.
And planted her face square into the middle of my chest.
DEEP into my chest.
Like.... deep deep into my chest.
I felt like a stripper for a moment.
The only regular contact I have with women are my wife Lorie and my daughter Katie. Hugs are frequent and familiar. But to have such contact with anyone else, much less a stranger, is just weird. And here I was, being 'snuzzled' by someone's grandmother who really just wanted to pick up her grandkid and leave.
The woman bounced back off my chest and staggered back. She didn't look up. I said "Excuse me. I'm sorry." She mumbled something, slipped past me, and was gone.
But for that one brief moment, we were one.
Thanks,
DCD
A happy side effect to this is that Lorie and I have started to have dates. We had forgotten what it was like to be alone together, as it only happens once or twice a year. So while the kids are at youth group, we've been sneaking out to various restaurants and just being together.
Last Wednesday, we went to a restaurant and had a nice meal together. Afterwards, I dropped Lorie off at the house to get started on some endless addition chores, and then took off for the church to pick up the kids.
This particular church is very popular for their youth group program. The place was swarming with people. Teenagers and older kids of all sizes were everywhere while I stood in the lobby waiting for Alex. My seven-year-old has joined the program for younger kids and they get released to parents, rather than just let go like the older kids. I stood there, clutching my kid-claim-ticket, trying to hold down my frustration at being out so late on a work night and having to wait. I have issues with patience.
The parents waiting with me began to get funneled towards the double doors, only one of which was open, in order to step up to a desk, present a claim ticket, and get their kids. I was second in line, behind a much shorter grandmother type woman obviously there for her grandkid.
The place was controlled chaos. I was uncomfortable.
The woman in front of me presented her ticket, got her kid, got the kid's coat on in a lingering process of awkwardness that took forever, and finally got ready to go. But instead of walking out into the normal flow of traffic to make her escape, this woman swiveled in place and began to walk.
And planted her face square into the middle of my chest.
DEEP into my chest.
Like.... deep deep into my chest.
I felt like a stripper for a moment.
The only regular contact I have with women are my wife Lorie and my daughter Katie. Hugs are frequent and familiar. But to have such contact with anyone else, much less a stranger, is just weird. And here I was, being 'snuzzled' by someone's grandmother who really just wanted to pick up her grandkid and leave.
The woman bounced back off my chest and staggered back. She didn't look up. I said "Excuse me. I'm sorry." She mumbled something, slipped past me, and was gone.
But for that one brief moment, we were one.
Thanks,
DCD
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Soundtracks and Socialization
A while back, I detailed my awkward experience with a co-worker who was trying to make small talk about what I was reading at the moment. I played it like a silly little story… “I grinned and went back to my reading”… that kind of thing. But it’s a little deeper than that. More isolationist.
I think… and this is me guessing but it sounds right, I think that I just want to be left alone to whatever I was doing before the interruption. So I use the oddness of my hobby to drive people away. And that way I can get back to the task at hand.
Isn’t that crappy?
I’ll lay down a statement like “I’m reading about Bill Everett, influential comic book creator during the Golden Age of comics”, and then offer no more information. In my head, I’m being polite. I don’t want to bog the person down by rambling on about needless information. I save that for the readers of my blog. But this idea of throwing out an odd fact and then offering no other information is also kind of like putting up a wall. “You can’t play in my playground, so walk away and let me get back to reading.”
Crappy.
Case in point…
I’ve started to take the kids to a church Youth Group on Wednesday night. It gets them some much needed social time, away from their chores for a few hours, and gives them good influences that they just don’t get at school.
The second time I tried this out, I decided to stay at the church for two hours to work on some writing, budgeting, reading, and other similar type stuff in the quiet sitting area. Rather than trying to drive back home just to turn around in an hour and come back to get them. In order to avoid eavesdropping on conversations around me, I pulled out my iPod and plugged in.
After awhile, my back started to hurt in the chair I had chosen and it was time to move seats. I got my stuff together, moved across the room to an uncomfortable looking couch, and set up there.
A young guy, obviously affiliated with the church and studying something very closely, nodded and smiled at me. “Hey.” He said. “What are you listening to?”
I looked down at my iPod. “Oh this? This is the soundtrack to the Planet of the Apes.”
He frowned at me.
“From the 1968 movie. Not the 2001 one. But I have that one on here too. That's Danny Elfman.” I went on.
He frowned.
“That’s… “ he laughed in a friendly way. “That’s very unique.”
“I’m hipster.” I exclaimed with confidence.
Polite laugh. slowly fading smile. He went back to his reading. I went back to mine.
See? See what I mean?
Thanks,
DCD
I think… and this is me guessing but it sounds right, I think that I just want to be left alone to whatever I was doing before the interruption. So I use the oddness of my hobby to drive people away. And that way I can get back to the task at hand.
Isn’t that crappy?
I’ll lay down a statement like “I’m reading about Bill Everett, influential comic book creator during the Golden Age of comics”, and then offer no more information. In my head, I’m being polite. I don’t want to bog the person down by rambling on about needless information. I save that for the readers of my blog. But this idea of throwing out an odd fact and then offering no other information is also kind of like putting up a wall. “You can’t play in my playground, so walk away and let me get back to reading.”
Crappy.
Case in point…
I’ve started to take the kids to a church Youth Group on Wednesday night. It gets them some much needed social time, away from their chores for a few hours, and gives them good influences that they just don’t get at school.
The second time I tried this out, I decided to stay at the church for two hours to work on some writing, budgeting, reading, and other similar type stuff in the quiet sitting area. Rather than trying to drive back home just to turn around in an hour and come back to get them. In order to avoid eavesdropping on conversations around me, I pulled out my iPod and plugged in.
After awhile, my back started to hurt in the chair I had chosen and it was time to move seats. I got my stuff together, moved across the room to an uncomfortable looking couch, and set up there.
A young guy, obviously affiliated with the church and studying something very closely, nodded and smiled at me. “Hey.” He said. “What are you listening to?”
I looked down at my iPod. “Oh this? This is the soundtrack to the Planet of the Apes.”
He frowned at me.
“From the 1968 movie. Not the 2001 one. But I have that one on here too. That's Danny Elfman.” I went on.
He frowned.
“That’s… “ he laughed in a friendly way. “That’s very unique.”
“I’m hipster.” I exclaimed with confidence.
Polite laugh. slowly fading smile. He went back to his reading. I went back to mine.
See? See what I mean?
Thanks,
DCD
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Reading on my Lunch Break
I've read a lot of books on the history of comics in America. A lot. In fact, whenever I get a new book on the history of comics, I'm slightly curious as to whether I'll learn anything new.
Recently, as part of my efforts to 'trim the fat' of the collection, I decided to donate the books I have on the history of comics to the local library. It seemed like a good idea to help along anyone that might have similar interests. I collected the books together and was slightly surprised to find out I had twenty. Twenty books on the history of comics. I was rather comical struggling down the street and up the library steps with that stack. The Martinsburg Public Library has zero parking.
I have a rule that on my lunch breaks at work, I'll read 'for realsies' books. Books with more words than pictures. That's how I ended up reading the Steve Jobs biography last summer. And the Edgar Rice Burroughs stuff and H. Rider Haggard and some dalliances with H.P. Lovecraft and the Tina Fey biography Bossypants. All read during my lunch breaks at work.
The other day, I was reading at work with my feet up in my guest chair and content to be in a different head space for a few minutes. A co-worker that I don't really talk to all that much walked by my cube and stopped.
"Reading, huh." He asked me. "Reading comics?" My cube is covered in toys and trappings of the typical comic book enthusiast. So my hobby is no secret.
"No no... " I answered. "Real book this time."
"Oh yeah?" He strained at interest. "Whatchya reading this time?"
"It's a biography of Bill Everett. A comic book creator from the Golden Age of comics."
"... "
"He created the Sub-Mariner for Marvel comics." I felt the need to press on. "Interesting dude. Lived most of his life as an alcoholic and died of a heart attack."
"...." my co-worker wasn't exactly sure how to take this conversation to a satisfying exit. "You uh..." he waived a finger over my cube "You really get into this stuff. I mean... like... DEEP into this stuff."
"Yeah." I grinned. I have a private rule about not giving people too much information when they didn't ask for it. "I suppose I do."
He paused for a minute. Shifted from one leg to the other, and said: "I like music."
"Yeah?" I nodded. "Music's good."
"Yeah. I like it." He nodded back. "I guess we all have our own things."
"Yeah." I kept nodding.
"Well enjoy your book."
He walked off.
I smiled and went back to reading. I even learned a few things I didn't know before! About Bill Everett and the Sub-Mariner. Not about music or human interaction.
Thanks,
DCD
Recently, as part of my efforts to 'trim the fat' of the collection, I decided to donate the books I have on the history of comics to the local library. It seemed like a good idea to help along anyone that might have similar interests. I collected the books together and was slightly surprised to find out I had twenty. Twenty books on the history of comics. I was rather comical struggling down the street and up the library steps with that stack. The Martinsburg Public Library has zero parking.
I have a rule that on my lunch breaks at work, I'll read 'for realsies' books. Books with more words than pictures. That's how I ended up reading the Steve Jobs biography last summer. And the Edgar Rice Burroughs stuff and H. Rider Haggard and some dalliances with H.P. Lovecraft and the Tina Fey biography Bossypants. All read during my lunch breaks at work.
The other day, I was reading at work with my feet up in my guest chair and content to be in a different head space for a few minutes. A co-worker that I don't really talk to all that much walked by my cube and stopped.
"Reading, huh." He asked me. "Reading comics?" My cube is covered in toys and trappings of the typical comic book enthusiast. So my hobby is no secret.
"No no... " I answered. "Real book this time."
"Oh yeah?" He strained at interest. "Whatchya reading this time?"
"It's a biography of Bill Everett. A comic book creator from the Golden Age of comics."
"... "
"He created the Sub-Mariner for Marvel comics." I felt the need to press on. "Interesting dude. Lived most of his life as an alcoholic and died of a heart attack."
"...." my co-worker wasn't exactly sure how to take this conversation to a satisfying exit. "You uh..." he waived a finger over my cube "You really get into this stuff. I mean... like... DEEP into this stuff."
"Yeah." I grinned. I have a private rule about not giving people too much information when they didn't ask for it. "I suppose I do."
He paused for a minute. Shifted from one leg to the other, and said: "I like music."
"Yeah?" I nodded. "Music's good."
"Yeah. I like it." He nodded back. "I guess we all have our own things."
"Yeah." I kept nodding.
"Well enjoy your book."
He walked off.
I smiled and went back to reading. I even learned a few things I didn't know before! About Bill Everett and the Sub-Mariner. Not about music or human interaction.
Thanks,
DCD
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Love it or List it
My wife Lorie doesn’t listen to radio shows from the 1940’s or watch TV shows from the 1970’s or read comic books from the 1960's or obsess on things like music spreadsheets and playlist orders. My wife does annoyingly practical things, like live in the present.
My wife works on the addition. Has for years. As far as I know, that’s what she does for fun now. Works on our house addition. Heaven only knows what she’ll do when we actually finish the thing. OH! And she watches HGTV. Lots and lots of HGTV.
One of the shows she watches on HGTV is “Love it or List it”. I think the show’s a reality show where one person tries to find a beleaguered home-owning couple a new home while the other person tries to show the home-owner what can be done with their existing home. At the end of the show the home-owner has to decide whether or not to “Love it or List it”.
MY problem is this: the kids. They’re so trained from birth to flock to a television set that’s on that it no longer matters what the show is actually about. So while Katie has the will to pull herself away from a show she has no interest in, neither Ashton nor Alex has shown this particular super power. They’ll sit in front of the TV for hours no matter what’s on.
I call the TV the ‘stupid-maker’. My Grandmother used to call it the “Idiot Box”.
The other day I was dutifully going through my nightly list of Daddy-follow-ups and caught my six-year-old son Alex sitting in front of the TV in a stupor. "Alex, time for shower!"
"AaaawwwaAAAAaaah!" He moaned.
"Get your pajamas, get your butt to the bathroom, and get naked!"
"Yes sir." He trudged off.
Fifteen minutes later Lorie paused her show to check on him while I worked with the older kids on other stuff. Just as she put a hand on the bathroom door, he barreled out. Half-dressed and pulling his pajama top on over his still-soaking head.
"Mommy! Mommy!" he cried out.
"Yes. Alex I'm right here." Lorie was startled. "What is it?"
"Did they love it or list it?"
...
Lorie stood there giggling. I stood there fuming. And Alex stood there dripping.
Definitely too much TV around here.
Thanks,
DCD
My wife works on the addition. Has for years. As far as I know, that’s what she does for fun now. Works on our house addition. Heaven only knows what she’ll do when we actually finish the thing. OH! And she watches HGTV. Lots and lots of HGTV.
One of the shows she watches on HGTV is “Love it or List it”. I think the show’s a reality show where one person tries to find a beleaguered home-owning couple a new home while the other person tries to show the home-owner what can be done with their existing home. At the end of the show the home-owner has to decide whether or not to “Love it or List it”.
MY problem is this: the kids. They’re so trained from birth to flock to a television set that’s on that it no longer matters what the show is actually about. So while Katie has the will to pull herself away from a show she has no interest in, neither Ashton nor Alex has shown this particular super power. They’ll sit in front of the TV for hours no matter what’s on.
I call the TV the ‘stupid-maker’. My Grandmother used to call it the “Idiot Box”.
The other day I was dutifully going through my nightly list of Daddy-follow-ups and caught my six-year-old son Alex sitting in front of the TV in a stupor. "Alex, time for shower!"
"AaaawwwaAAAAaaah!" He moaned.
"Get your pajamas, get your butt to the bathroom, and get naked!"
"Yes sir." He trudged off.
Fifteen minutes later Lorie paused her show to check on him while I worked with the older kids on other stuff. Just as she put a hand on the bathroom door, he barreled out. Half-dressed and pulling his pajama top on over his still-soaking head.
"Mommy! Mommy!" he cried out.
"Yes. Alex I'm right here." Lorie was startled. "What is it?"
"Did they love it or list it?"
...
Lorie stood there giggling. I stood there fuming. And Alex stood there dripping.
Definitely too much TV around here.
Thanks,
DCD
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Ashton at the Gym
My 13-year-old son Ashton has joined our gym.
Lorie and I have been going to the Wellness Center which is affiliated with the hospital she works at for almost a year now. Before that, we were going to Gold’s. We’re believers in regular exercise, and the kids have been exercising since each of them turned 4.
Ashton has been doing three sets of push-ups for me for nine years. Lately, he starts with one set of 25 knuckle push-ups, and his other two sets are flat hand at 30 push-ups.
I had been wrestling with when exactly he would be ready to exercise on his own or join a gym or perhaps start using weights. You hear different things about when they can start, but really it boils down to the person and their mindset. If they’re ready, they’ll be into it.
A couple of weeks ago Ashton started going past his Daddy-set goals for push-ups. One day his three sets were 30-35-40. The next exercise session he went 30-40-50. This infuriated his six-year-old brother, who considers the two of them to be in competition.
But once Ashton started showing a willingness to push himself, I knew he was beyond Daddy-regulation and ready to join the gym.
He signed up eagerly. He was actually a little excited about it. The personal trainers there assessed him, designed a routine for him, showed him how to use the electronic key, and turned him loose.
Last week was the first time we went to the gym when Ashton was there to work out on his own and not meet with a personal trainer. I split off from him and went about my normal routine; occasionally looking around to see where he was and if he was still doing okay. He was moving from treadmill to stationary bike to weights to rowing machine all on his own.
I finished my two sets of cardio and moved into the weight area. As I was moving from one machine to the next, I passed my son. That’s kind of an odd feeling. Anyway, he was at one machine struggling with how to adjust the seat. So I stopped to help him out.
I waited patiently for him to acknowledge my presence, which he did not.
I tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up, ear buds still in and iPod still blaring. I waited for him to pause his music and remove his ear buds, which he did not.
I motioned for him to ditch the ear buds. He did so reluctantly.
“What.” He grunted at me.
“Do you need a hand with that?” I asked.
“No.” He grunted at me.
“You sure?” I pressed.
“Yeah.” He grunted at me.
In case you’re not aware, I’m not really used to be talked to like this. Especially not by one of my own kids. But I want the gym thing to be a pleasant experience and I want to treat him like he’s a real person and all that crap.
I watched him spin the knob to adjust the seat. I suggested he pull instead of spin. He pulled and the seat dropped. He straightened and stared at me, waiting for me to leave.
“We good?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He grunted at me. Putting the ear buds back in.
So…. Yeah.
My 13-year-old son Ashton has joined our gym.
Have I mentioned he’s a teenager now?
Thanks,
DCD
Lorie and I have been going to the Wellness Center which is affiliated with the hospital she works at for almost a year now. Before that, we were going to Gold’s. We’re believers in regular exercise, and the kids have been exercising since each of them turned 4.
Ashton has been doing three sets of push-ups for me for nine years. Lately, he starts with one set of 25 knuckle push-ups, and his other two sets are flat hand at 30 push-ups.
I had been wrestling with when exactly he would be ready to exercise on his own or join a gym or perhaps start using weights. You hear different things about when they can start, but really it boils down to the person and their mindset. If they’re ready, they’ll be into it.
A couple of weeks ago Ashton started going past his Daddy-set goals for push-ups. One day his three sets were 30-35-40. The next exercise session he went 30-40-50. This infuriated his six-year-old brother, who considers the two of them to be in competition.
But once Ashton started showing a willingness to push himself, I knew he was beyond Daddy-regulation and ready to join the gym.
He signed up eagerly. He was actually a little excited about it. The personal trainers there assessed him, designed a routine for him, showed him how to use the electronic key, and turned him loose.
Last week was the first time we went to the gym when Ashton was there to work out on his own and not meet with a personal trainer. I split off from him and went about my normal routine; occasionally looking around to see where he was and if he was still doing okay. He was moving from treadmill to stationary bike to weights to rowing machine all on his own.
I finished my two sets of cardio and moved into the weight area. As I was moving from one machine to the next, I passed my son. That’s kind of an odd feeling. Anyway, he was at one machine struggling with how to adjust the seat. So I stopped to help him out.
I waited patiently for him to acknowledge my presence, which he did not.
I tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up, ear buds still in and iPod still blaring. I waited for him to pause his music and remove his ear buds, which he did not.
I motioned for him to ditch the ear buds. He did so reluctantly.
“What.” He grunted at me.
“Do you need a hand with that?” I asked.
“No.” He grunted at me.
“You sure?” I pressed.
“Yeah.” He grunted at me.
In case you’re not aware, I’m not really used to be talked to like this. Especially not by one of my own kids. But I want the gym thing to be a pleasant experience and I want to treat him like he’s a real person and all that crap.
I watched him spin the knob to adjust the seat. I suggested he pull instead of spin. He pulled and the seat dropped. He straightened and stared at me, waiting for me to leave.
“We good?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He grunted at me. Putting the ear buds back in.
So…. Yeah.
My 13-year-old son Ashton has joined our gym.
Have I mentioned he’s a teenager now?
Thanks,
DCD
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Smurfette and the Ray Gun
The other day I was in the bathroom peeing for a standing position and looked down. There on the bathroom counter looking back up at me was Smurfette.
I got embarrassed and uncomfortable.
It was one of Katie’s little Surf figures that she had gotten for Christmas years ago. She’s been in the process of cleaning her room, organizing her stuff, and busily growing out of childish things. I’m against it. Whether Smurfette was in the ‘to keep’ pile or the ‘to Goodwill’ pile, I don’t know. But it’s mine now.
Lately I’ve been picking up one of my mother’s more distressing habits. Picking small objects that reminds me of the kids at an earlier stage in their development, keeping those small objects, and idolizing them. This Smurfette, for obvious blondish reasons, reminded me of Katie. So I swiped it off the bathroom counter and moved it to the top of a bookcase where only I could see it. It’s the tall person’s act of claiming something without actually removing it from the room.
It’s a Christmas Smurfette, from a set with a Papa Smurf and a little Christmas train or some such nonsense. Usually I’m against the visible Christmas item year-round, but this had quickly moved from ‘Christmas decoration’ to ‘Katie token’. The only problem being that her ray gun is upside down.
Every time I see it, which is now every time I go to the bathroom in my own home, I’m bothered by this. It makes no sense. Did they mean for the ray gun to be upside down? That seems odd. Did the ray gun come loose and Katie put it back in upside down? No… No it’s stuck in her hand. Very odd. I just don’t get it.
The other night I was getting ready for bed and Lorie said to me: “Did you know there’s a Smurfette in the bathroom?”
I was legitimately surprised that she had seen it!
“Yeah. I put it there. It reminds me of Katie.” I grinned. Lorie suspected as much. “But it really bothers me that her ray gun is upside down.”
“Ray gun?” Lorie questioned.
“Yeah, she’s holding a ray gun.” I shrugged. “Only it’s upside-down.”
Lorie sat back shaking her head. “A ray gun? A Christmas ray gun?”
“Yeah.”
“That makes no sense.” She said.
“Especially upside down.” I agreed.
“It would make much more sense if they gave her a stocking instead.” Lorie went back to her reading.
“Yeah.”
I got in bed.
“Huh.” I mused.
I flipped on the iPad and pulled up my comics.
….
“OOooooooooh… a stocking.” I sighed as Lorie devolved into giggles.
Thing is, it never once occurred to me that what Smurfette was holding was anything less than a ray gun. Even upside down.
Sigh.
Thanks,
DCD
I got embarrassed and uncomfortable.
It was one of Katie’s little Surf figures that she had gotten for Christmas years ago. She’s been in the process of cleaning her room, organizing her stuff, and busily growing out of childish things. I’m against it. Whether Smurfette was in the ‘to keep’ pile or the ‘to Goodwill’ pile, I don’t know. But it’s mine now.
Lately I’ve been picking up one of my mother’s more distressing habits. Picking small objects that reminds me of the kids at an earlier stage in their development, keeping those small objects, and idolizing them. This Smurfette, for obvious blondish reasons, reminded me of Katie. So I swiped it off the bathroom counter and moved it to the top of a bookcase where only I could see it. It’s the tall person’s act of claiming something without actually removing it from the room.
It’s a Christmas Smurfette, from a set with a Papa Smurf and a little Christmas train or some such nonsense. Usually I’m against the visible Christmas item year-round, but this had quickly moved from ‘Christmas decoration’ to ‘Katie token’. The only problem being that her ray gun is upside down.
Every time I see it, which is now every time I go to the bathroom in my own home, I’m bothered by this. It makes no sense. Did they mean for the ray gun to be upside down? That seems odd. Did the ray gun come loose and Katie put it back in upside down? No… No it’s stuck in her hand. Very odd. I just don’t get it.
The other night I was getting ready for bed and Lorie said to me: “Did you know there’s a Smurfette in the bathroom?”
I was legitimately surprised that she had seen it!
“Yeah. I put it there. It reminds me of Katie.” I grinned. Lorie suspected as much. “But it really bothers me that her ray gun is upside down.”
“Ray gun?” Lorie questioned.
“Yeah, she’s holding a ray gun.” I shrugged. “Only it’s upside-down.”
Lorie sat back shaking her head. “A ray gun? A Christmas ray gun?”
“Yeah.”
“That makes no sense.” She said.
“Especially upside down.” I agreed.
“It would make much more sense if they gave her a stocking instead.” Lorie went back to her reading.
“Yeah.”
I got in bed.
“Huh.” I mused.
I flipped on the iPad and pulled up my comics.
….
“OOooooooooh… a stocking.” I sighed as Lorie devolved into giggles.
Thing is, it never once occurred to me that what Smurfette was holding was anything less than a ray gun. Even upside down.
Sigh.
Thanks,
DCD
Friday, January 18, 2013
Shatner's World
While I’ve yammered on incessantly about my various passions on this blog, you no doubt have picked up that I love Star Trek. The classic 1960’s version of Star Trek that was rerun all through the seventies and carved into our childhood in that way that’s just permanent right down to your toes. And while my true love will always be for the character of Captain Kirk, I have more than a little reverence and respect for William Shatner.
We’re even Facebook friends. Sort of… I subscribe to his page. And that’s how I learned about his one man show.
The realization was sort of a smack in the face. I quivered. Lorie was on the couch next to me. “What’s up?” she asked, barely looking up from the Sims game on her iPad mini.
“William Shatner has a one man show. He’s touring America.” I replied.
“Huh.” She didn’t even bother to look up.
A quick Google search and I found that the show is called “Shatner’s World and We Just Live in it”. I found a couple of reviews and they were less than stellar, but that didn’t deter me. The seed had started to grow in my head. I don’t really go to concerts or shows anymore. Can’t even remember the last one I went to. But this… this was different. This was William Shatner; he who played such a huge role in my childhood.
I found the official website for the show. They had clips! I sat their clutching my iPad and played a few of the clips. Giggling and smiling like a small child.
Lorie glanced at me with a frown of concern.
I searched the website for the tour schedule. They only had dates through January and mostly shows in the West and in Texas. The closest he was coming was Atlanta, Georgia.
I spoke this out loud and got a non-committal grunt from my wife. Although a surreptitious glance at her face would tell me that she was becoming VERY concerned.
“It’s this weekend.” I spoke through my stupid smile. “He’ll be in Atlanta, GA on January 13th. This weekend.”
Lorie’s fingers were slowing down as they touched across her new iPad mini. The frown was a full-on facial crease at this point. I knew that she was thinking to herself “Please don’t make me see William Shatner live and in concert.” But she would never say that out loud to me at such an early stage in the ‘dance’.
“I can get two tickets for $135.” I didn’t look up. But I saw Lorie’s head-swivel in my peripheral vision.
I pulled up the maps on the iPad and asked it for directions to Atlanta, GA from my current location. It mapped out three possible routes, suggested the most direct, and estimated the drive to be a little over ten hours.
“Can we drive ten hours to Atlanta, Georgia to see William Shatner in his one-man show for $135 this weekend?” I wasn’t fully serious. At this point, I just wanted to see how she would react.
Lorie’s voice was a little shaky and cracked as she answered. “We really have to get some work done on the addition this weekend, baby.”
She wasn’t saying ‘no’, of course. That’s not how our relationship works. But I had already made up my mind that there was no way I was gonna go to Atlanta this weekend. It’s just too much. And too soon after the money-hog that is Christmas. So I acted disappointed and dropped the issue.
And then I made an iPhone reminder to check the website for any new tour dates and locations in late January.
Thanks,
DCD
We’re even Facebook friends. Sort of… I subscribe to his page. And that’s how I learned about his one man show.
The realization was sort of a smack in the face. I quivered. Lorie was on the couch next to me. “What’s up?” she asked, barely looking up from the Sims game on her iPad mini.
“William Shatner has a one man show. He’s touring America.” I replied.
“Huh.” She didn’t even bother to look up.
A quick Google search and I found that the show is called “Shatner’s World and We Just Live in it”. I found a couple of reviews and they were less than stellar, but that didn’t deter me. The seed had started to grow in my head. I don’t really go to concerts or shows anymore. Can’t even remember the last one I went to. But this… this was different. This was William Shatner; he who played such a huge role in my childhood.
I found the official website for the show. They had clips! I sat their clutching my iPad and played a few of the clips. Giggling and smiling like a small child.
Lorie glanced at me with a frown of concern.
I searched the website for the tour schedule. They only had dates through January and mostly shows in the West and in Texas. The closest he was coming was Atlanta, Georgia.
I spoke this out loud and got a non-committal grunt from my wife. Although a surreptitious glance at her face would tell me that she was becoming VERY concerned.
“It’s this weekend.” I spoke through my stupid smile. “He’ll be in Atlanta, GA on January 13th. This weekend.”
Lorie’s fingers were slowing down as they touched across her new iPad mini. The frown was a full-on facial crease at this point. I knew that she was thinking to herself “Please don’t make me see William Shatner live and in concert.” But she would never say that out loud to me at such an early stage in the ‘dance’.
“I can get two tickets for $135.” I didn’t look up. But I saw Lorie’s head-swivel in my peripheral vision.
I pulled up the maps on the iPad and asked it for directions to Atlanta, GA from my current location. It mapped out three possible routes, suggested the most direct, and estimated the drive to be a little over ten hours.
“Can we drive ten hours to Atlanta, Georgia to see William Shatner in his one-man show for $135 this weekend?” I wasn’t fully serious. At this point, I just wanted to see how she would react.
Lorie’s voice was a little shaky and cracked as she answered. “We really have to get some work done on the addition this weekend, baby.”
She wasn’t saying ‘no’, of course. That’s not how our relationship works. But I had already made up my mind that there was no way I was gonna go to Atlanta this weekend. It’s just too much. And too soon after the money-hog that is Christmas. So I acted disappointed and dropped the issue.
And then I made an iPhone reminder to check the website for any new tour dates and locations in late January.
Thanks,
DCD
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
The Wisk Incident
In any group of friends with a sizable chunk of time spent together under their fingernails, there's going to be stories. Legendary stories. Favorite stories that get resurfaced every time a new girlfriend is introduced or someone's sister visits from far away, and embarrassment must be claimed. For my friends and I, this is one of those stories.
1995. I was a very lonely bachelor with very little friends. What few friends I did have, I had known for what seemed like forever and a day. Being with them was extremely comfortable for me. And I tried to be with them whenever possible.
Jamie, Scott and Mario were rooming together in a three bedroom apartment in Fairfax. Bill and I were honorary roommates, as we were almost always there. The living arrangement was the source of endless stories. Like the time Jamie romanced a one night stand for Mario. Or the time Jamie woke up in bed with Mario. Or the several times Mario would weigh himself naked right after a shower. They kept the scale in the living room. Or the time my sister asked Jamie why he doesn't have any leg hair. Or the time...the time...
Or the time I drilled a wisk into my finger.
When Scott moved into the apartment, he bought a complete set of cooking supplies. He bought dishes and pans and cleaning utensils aplenty. He was proud of his fully-stocked and loaded kitchen. He was especially proud of what it symbolized. His independence and ability to feed himself. Although, he rarely ever cooked. He found out early on that if he cooked, Mario would eat. He didn't want to set the standard of being the house chef. Between that and laziness he ended up eating at the pizza shop next to his comic book store all the time. One of the many electronic cooking gizmos he bought was a wisk. A little plug-in handle with a spinning end that had different attachments. Egg-beater, wisk, toothbrush, garage door opener...this thing had it all.
A wisk, in case you don't know, is a little metal wire that spirals in concentric circles. Looked at from the top, it looks like a hypno-disk from the 1950's.
I was looking at the wisk from the top late one Saturday night. Thinking about how the Wizard or Dr. Occult would best use this gadget against Prince Ra-Man. Scott, Mario, Jamie, Bill and myself were all pokered out and sick of junk food. We were looking for one last dose of entertainment before calling it a night. Mario grabbed Scott and left for the video store. Mario had the rental card, Scott had the money. Bill, Jamie and I stood in the kitchen. Talking about sports.
I listened to Bill and Jamie talk about sports, occasionally tuning them out. In day to day life, I try to keep my nerd tendencies suppressed. I try to not make constant comic-book filled conversation, although I fail more often than not. With my friends and their innate ability to let my hair down, I talk about comics a little more freely than normal. So it was only fair to listen while they talked about sports.
Now that I think about it, it must be a real burden being one of my friends.
I listened to Jamie go on about basketball and statistics and money. I watched the wisk whirl round and round and round. I pretended I was Hourman, slowly falling prey to the will of the Psycho-Pirate. I touched the end of the wisk, letting the cool metal strand spiraling away from me massage my fingertip. Interesting. More interesting than basketball. I wondered what the reverse would feel like. With no forethought, I hit the reverse button.
The wisk seemed to 'grab' my finger, and the perfect metal spiral circles twisted themselves into a jam, encircling my entire hand. I tried to pul my finger free, at first worried about Scott's wisk. I only succeeded in pulling the appliance close enough to grab my sweater. Still spinning, the wisk wrapped my sweater around my hand and only stopped when it could go no further.
Bill and Jamie weren't really watching what I was doing. To them it came as a complete surprise to look over and see my arms twisted up into my sweater, a plugged-in electrical cord trailing out of the wadded up cloth.
"Chuck has a kitchen appliance." Bill warned.
Jamie laughed so hard he actually put his beer down.
Unable to extricate myself without help, it wasn't until Bill pulled me free that we fully realized what had happened.
The tip of the wisk had drilled INTO my finger. Circling twice, looping around the bone and underneath the fingernail.
We stared in amazement. There was no pain..yet. There was no blood..yet. There was only a wisk drilled into my finger.
I immediately knew this would be one of 'those' stories.
Jamie, unable to handle the sight, swiftly retreated to his room. He could better drink beer in peace in there. Bill studied my finger carefully. Probably thinking about how best to use the microwave to rectify the current situation.
"Get it out, Bill." I gritted my teeth.
"How should I do that, genius?" Bill's question was legitimate.
"Are there any wire cutters around here." I held my hand like it was a fragile porcelain bunny. "If we can cut the wire at the twist, maybe we can pull it free."
"Doubtful." Bill frowned.
"We gotta try."
"JAMIE!" Bill yelled without warning. "Got any wire cutters?"
We waited a moment for Jamie's reply. "No." Came his muffled voice.
"Hardware store?" Bill asked.
"Late on a Saturday night?" I countered. "There's an all-night Safeway across the street."
"Long shot." Bill grabbed his keys. "I'll be right back."
I sat on the couch and turned on the television. Jamie, checking to make sure no one was in excessive pain and there was no blood, quietly exited his room and sat next to me.
"Beer?" He asked.
"No thank you." I answered.
I wasn't even drinking that night. I don't drink beer and that's all Jamie buys. Although, in hindsight, some Old Granddad Whiskey could have done nothing but help the situation. At this point, Jamie's behavior in the face of this emergency might seem a little cold. But offering to part with some of his beer shows the magnitude in which he held the situation.
There's nothing more surreal than sitting on the couch watching television with one friend while you wait for the other friend to get back from the store with wire cutters to remove a kitchen appliance from your finger.
Bill came back with pliers. Best he could do. No wire cutters. After a session of 'foot in my chest' pulling, during which Jamie hid, Bill decided he couldn't handle my screams of pain. It was time to bite the bullet and drive me to the emergency room.
"And your reason for today's visit to the emergency room?" The nurse had a dull-eyed 'seen everything' look about her.
I placed my hand on the desk in front of her. The wisk dangled on the end of my finger like the head from a Jack-in-the-Box. Bobbing back and forth and swaying to and fro.
Bill pointed at my finger and used his best 'eyes wide open, naive and innocent face'. "He did it. We can't get it out." He told her.
We waited in the emergency room for half an hour. You can imagine the looks I got from the other Saturday night emergency room idiots. I WASN'T EVEN DRINKING! My accident was caused while daydreaming about super-heroes. Even in the emergency room I find myself unique.
The doctor gave me a shot, snipped the wire, and yanked it out. Two minutes. He was grinning.
When we got back to the apartment, Mario and Scott had returned. Scott was more than a little cross, and wouldn't talk to me for the rest of the night. He was angry for two reasons. One, I was stupid enough to actually drill his wisk into my finger. And two, I ruined his wisk. Scott's not a very forgiving guy. He's kind of opinionated. In this case he was just being a horses' ass.
Still, I never replaced the wisk. And in the face of a ruined set of kitchen utensils, my friendship didn't have much value.
I did keep the tip that got drilled into my finger. I'm not sure where it is now, but for awhile it was my good luck charm. Until I started to get the hospital bills. Five hundred dollars for the doctor to play carpenter on my finger. I hate doctors. My insurance company claimed that since it was an unreported emergency room visit, they had no responsibility. Surprise surprise that an insurance company would have no responsibility. I hate insurance companies.
It almost seems like the rules of the world are built against the man willing to drill a wisk into his finger on a boring Saturday night.
So the next time I drill a wisk into my finger, I'm not going to the doctor. No matter how hard it is to type.
Thanks,
DCD
1995. I was a very lonely bachelor with very little friends. What few friends I did have, I had known for what seemed like forever and a day. Being with them was extremely comfortable for me. And I tried to be with them whenever possible.
Jamie, Scott and Mario were rooming together in a three bedroom apartment in Fairfax. Bill and I were honorary roommates, as we were almost always there. The living arrangement was the source of endless stories. Like the time Jamie romanced a one night stand for Mario. Or the time Jamie woke up in bed with Mario. Or the several times Mario would weigh himself naked right after a shower. They kept the scale in the living room. Or the time my sister asked Jamie why he doesn't have any leg hair. Or the time...the time...
Or the time I drilled a wisk into my finger.
When Scott moved into the apartment, he bought a complete set of cooking supplies. He bought dishes and pans and cleaning utensils aplenty. He was proud of his fully-stocked and loaded kitchen. He was especially proud of what it symbolized. His independence and ability to feed himself. Although, he rarely ever cooked. He found out early on that if he cooked, Mario would eat. He didn't want to set the standard of being the house chef. Between that and laziness he ended up eating at the pizza shop next to his comic book store all the time. One of the many electronic cooking gizmos he bought was a wisk. A little plug-in handle with a spinning end that had different attachments. Egg-beater, wisk, toothbrush, garage door opener...this thing had it all.
A wisk, in case you don't know, is a little metal wire that spirals in concentric circles. Looked at from the top, it looks like a hypno-disk from the 1950's.
I was looking at the wisk from the top late one Saturday night. Thinking about how the Wizard or Dr. Occult would best use this gadget against Prince Ra-Man. Scott, Mario, Jamie, Bill and myself were all pokered out and sick of junk food. We were looking for one last dose of entertainment before calling it a night. Mario grabbed Scott and left for the video store. Mario had the rental card, Scott had the money. Bill, Jamie and I stood in the kitchen. Talking about sports.
I listened to Bill and Jamie talk about sports, occasionally tuning them out. In day to day life, I try to keep my nerd tendencies suppressed. I try to not make constant comic-book filled conversation, although I fail more often than not. With my friends and their innate ability to let my hair down, I talk about comics a little more freely than normal. So it was only fair to listen while they talked about sports.
Now that I think about it, it must be a real burden being one of my friends.
I listened to Jamie go on about basketball and statistics and money. I watched the wisk whirl round and round and round. I pretended I was Hourman, slowly falling prey to the will of the Psycho-Pirate. I touched the end of the wisk, letting the cool metal strand spiraling away from me massage my fingertip. Interesting. More interesting than basketball. I wondered what the reverse would feel like. With no forethought, I hit the reverse button.
The wisk seemed to 'grab' my finger, and the perfect metal spiral circles twisted themselves into a jam, encircling my entire hand. I tried to pul my finger free, at first worried about Scott's wisk. I only succeeded in pulling the appliance close enough to grab my sweater. Still spinning, the wisk wrapped my sweater around my hand and only stopped when it could go no further.
Bill and Jamie weren't really watching what I was doing. To them it came as a complete surprise to look over and see my arms twisted up into my sweater, a plugged-in electrical cord trailing out of the wadded up cloth.
"Chuck has a kitchen appliance." Bill warned.
Jamie laughed so hard he actually put his beer down.
Unable to extricate myself without help, it wasn't until Bill pulled me free that we fully realized what had happened.
The tip of the wisk had drilled INTO my finger. Circling twice, looping around the bone and underneath the fingernail.
We stared in amazement. There was no pain..yet. There was no blood..yet. There was only a wisk drilled into my finger.
I immediately knew this would be one of 'those' stories.
Jamie, unable to handle the sight, swiftly retreated to his room. He could better drink beer in peace in there. Bill studied my finger carefully. Probably thinking about how best to use the microwave to rectify the current situation.
"Get it out, Bill." I gritted my teeth.
"How should I do that, genius?" Bill's question was legitimate.
"Are there any wire cutters around here." I held my hand like it was a fragile porcelain bunny. "If we can cut the wire at the twist, maybe we can pull it free."
"Doubtful." Bill frowned.
"We gotta try."
"JAMIE!" Bill yelled without warning. "Got any wire cutters?"
We waited a moment for Jamie's reply. "No." Came his muffled voice.
"Hardware store?" Bill asked.
"Late on a Saturday night?" I countered. "There's an all-night Safeway across the street."
"Long shot." Bill grabbed his keys. "I'll be right back."
I sat on the couch and turned on the television. Jamie, checking to make sure no one was in excessive pain and there was no blood, quietly exited his room and sat next to me.
"Beer?" He asked.
"No thank you." I answered.
I wasn't even drinking that night. I don't drink beer and that's all Jamie buys. Although, in hindsight, some Old Granddad Whiskey could have done nothing but help the situation. At this point, Jamie's behavior in the face of this emergency might seem a little cold. But offering to part with some of his beer shows the magnitude in which he held the situation.
There's nothing more surreal than sitting on the couch watching television with one friend while you wait for the other friend to get back from the store with wire cutters to remove a kitchen appliance from your finger.
Bill came back with pliers. Best he could do. No wire cutters. After a session of 'foot in my chest' pulling, during which Jamie hid, Bill decided he couldn't handle my screams of pain. It was time to bite the bullet and drive me to the emergency room.
"And your reason for today's visit to the emergency room?" The nurse had a dull-eyed 'seen everything' look about her.
I placed my hand on the desk in front of her. The wisk dangled on the end of my finger like the head from a Jack-in-the-Box. Bobbing back and forth and swaying to and fro.
Bill pointed at my finger and used his best 'eyes wide open, naive and innocent face'. "He did it. We can't get it out." He told her.
We waited in the emergency room for half an hour. You can imagine the looks I got from the other Saturday night emergency room idiots. I WASN'T EVEN DRINKING! My accident was caused while daydreaming about super-heroes. Even in the emergency room I find myself unique.
The doctor gave me a shot, snipped the wire, and yanked it out. Two minutes. He was grinning.
When we got back to the apartment, Mario and Scott had returned. Scott was more than a little cross, and wouldn't talk to me for the rest of the night. He was angry for two reasons. One, I was stupid enough to actually drill his wisk into my finger. And two, I ruined his wisk. Scott's not a very forgiving guy. He's kind of opinionated. In this case he was just being a horses' ass.
Still, I never replaced the wisk. And in the face of a ruined set of kitchen utensils, my friendship didn't have much value.
I did keep the tip that got drilled into my finger. I'm not sure where it is now, but for awhile it was my good luck charm. Until I started to get the hospital bills. Five hundred dollars for the doctor to play carpenter on my finger. I hate doctors. My insurance company claimed that since it was an unreported emergency room visit, they had no responsibility. Surprise surprise that an insurance company would have no responsibility. I hate insurance companies.
It almost seems like the rules of the world are built against the man willing to drill a wisk into his finger on a boring Saturday night.
So the next time I drill a wisk into my finger, I'm not going to the doctor. No matter how hard it is to type.
Thanks,
DCD
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