I apologize for skipping last week’s installment but I was physically unable to write and I’ll explain why a bit later. Moving forward, throughout my childhood, I suffered the same pains most children endured as part of our natural progression toward acne and body hair. Somehow, I managed to survive the torment of K-Mart clothes, my mother’s ability to synthesize odd foods into “casseroles” and the dawning of music from “The Captain and Tennille.” The worst youthful pain I was forced to bear came courtesy of the senseless, unprovoked violence from the sixth grade bully at St. Michael’s Elementary School, whom we'll call Bernie. Actually, his name was Bernie but I’ll withhold his last name in case he ever hears of this and wants to kill me.
As young minds are prone to do, the rumor mill was cranked up in high gear, when it came to stories about Bernie and his upbringing. Some say he shot his neighbor’s dog with a 12 gauge shotgun. Other’s said he lived in a wooden shack on the outskirts of town and everyday, ate a breakfast of cold, White Castle hamburgers and his granny’s ox-tail soup. I tend to believe this last rumor, as Bernie had a knack for dispelling gas with such ferocity that I’ve witnessed first-hand, classmates vomiting and small children crying from breathing in the noxious fumes. As I said, Bernie was the class bully and proudly executed the duties which were inherent to holding such a prestigious office. Aside from the usual recess beatings he randomly administered to unsuspecting 5th and 6th graders, he had a signature move, uniquely his own, which he violently shared with just about anyone he came in contact with. He employed this technique when he was running short on time and couldn’t devote the proper time and concentration to give you a full-blown ass-kicking. He called it a “jap-slap.” Obviously, political correctness was not high on Bernie’s list of desired traits and to remind him of this meant certain death. The slap was simply an open-handed whack upside the back of your head, which accelerated the brain into the front of your skull, resulting in double vision for the next ten minutes. The only response to the jap-slap was a nervous laugh while hiding the pain, “Huh, huh, huh…good one, Bern! Huh, huh, huh.” Then you prayed he found a new victim. He’d also accompany the slap with phrases that were complete gibberish but still managed to scare the crap out me. My favorite was,
“Hey Red! You need discipline…like Buffy, you round-headed wall-swamper!” Then he’d blast the back of my head and I tried not to cry. I discovered the “Buffy” he referred to was his dog. Just what the hell a wall-swamper is, and a round headed one no less, I’ll never know. Although Bernie inflicted pain with a style all his own, the schoolyard bully, in general, was something most of us suffered. As time passed, a new “bully” emerged to replace Bernie and with it, came a whole new world of pain. I’m referring to the onset of old age.
Recently, I’ve suffered some fine examples of once previously harmless activities, which have now caused me unbelievable pain. Perhaps you’ve experienced something similar. For example, last winter I made my way to the couch for a Saturday afternoon of sitting. As I stepped between the couch and the ottoman, I felt a soft presence with my foot but was unable to see what I was about to crush because of the darkness and armful of gooey, snacks blocking my vision. As a pet owner there are certain rules you must adhere to. If you step on something soft and you’re not sure what it is, assume it’s a paw and take immediate action to step elsewhere. With my cat-like reflexes, I did just that. Quickly, I shifted my weight off the paw with a slight leap…2 or 3 inches…tops. That tiny leap was more than enough to pop my hamstring! It didn’t twinge, strain or stretch…it popped! Somehow I managed to safely set down the snacks, then I proceeded to hop around the family room on one leg, swearing at the dog and accusing her of “doing it on purpose.” I don’t know which was more embarrassing…the fact that I was seriously implicating our dog in a conspiracy to harm me by sleeping on the floor or that while in agony, I first sought to make sure not to spill my food. I had a black and blue bruise, from the back of my knee, all the way up to my butt cheek. When people inquired as to why I was limping, I thought it best to lie and tell them I did it during my daily 5 mile run. Unfortunately, people aren’t stupid and my ruse fooled no-one…but they were polite, kept there mouths shut and didn’t press me for the truth.
A few months ago, while mopping the kitchen floor, I noticed a stubborn piece of funk stuck to the area of floor I had just cleaned. I bent over to scratch off the offending speck with my fingernail and when I stepped on the damp floor, all hell broke loose. My right foot quickly slid across the floor, while my left foot remained stationary and although I hadn’t had any formal training or instruction at any level, I found myself involuntarily performing a less-than-perfect splits. Again, with cat-like reflexes, I managed to manipulate my body to avoid the impending slamming of my genitals on the freshly cleaned kitchen floor. With the dexterity and fluidity of an overstuffed sack of dirty laundry, I came to a flopping crash on the floor. As I lay there, I found myself doing what most people over the age of 30 do, after any kind of fall. Before getting up, I stopped and starting from my head and slowly working my way down, I gave myself a diagnostic check to see if all functions were operating at normal capacity.
“Ok…I can move my head…neck feels alright…both arms seem to be functioning…stomach…stomach feels a bit soft…gotta work on that…legs are moving…okay…I’m good to go.” Only after this examination could I have attempted to get up, for fear something may have been broken or leaking. Some falls, I’ve heard…never experienced myself, can actually make the “fallee” pass gas on impact, which brings up a whole other level of embarrassment. My fall was thankfully void of rectal fireworks but it did put a hurtin’ on my groin muscles. Word to the wise…mopping is dangerous and should be avoided at all costs.
This brings to me why I missed last week’s blog and my most recent example of adulthood pain. I planned on writing the blog last Saturday afternoon, right after doing some yard work. After completing my yard work, I discovered the new “bully” hell-bent on making my life miserable. It’s the common leaf rake. All I had to do was rake up and bag a backyard full of leaves. Sounds pretty simple. After a few minutes of raking, I deduced an increase in speed would make the chore go a whole lot faster. So, I spent the next hour raking like a madman…sweat pouring off my face, cheeks all red and hot…both sets of cheeks, I might add. From my chest, my heart was pounding out a loud, deep, resonating tone which sounded like the vibrating base of a punk teenager’s car stereo system. I stared death in the face and beat him back with a rake and a good lathering of sweat coming from bad places. After completing my task and a long period of still-time to recover, I tried to get up to write my blog…“tried” being the operative word here. From what I was experiencing, I somehow managed to snap my neck. My lower back on the right side was completely seized up and in direct correlation; my left ass cheek was on fire. I couldn’t move. All this pain from raking leaves…unbelievable!
It’s tough getting old but it’s something we all have to deal with. If I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that I should accept what life brings you and try to make the best of it. I’ve taken steps to do this and to settle some old scores, while I’m at it. Next time I have to rake the leaves, it won’t be me do the raking. You’ll find Bernie out in the yard, working off some past jap-slaps, which will free me up to write. Thanks Bernie.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Friday, November 7, 2008
The True Path To Salvation
I have yet to pilfer the few remaining treats from my daughter’s Halloween candy stash and when I look around at the local stores, I find we are steeped in the holiday season. Thanksgiving doesn’t get equal billing with Christmas. In fact, this late November feast has become nothing more than an exercise to stretch our stomachs to handle the upcoming December pig-outs, which then leads us to the January 1st rebirth into fitness and healthy eating, followed immediately by the January 2nd diet failure and depression. It’s a wonderful time of the year. There are those who would say that this is a despondent way of viewing, what should be, a time for joyous celebration with family and friends. They’re called “skinny people” and I hate them. Those of us, whom haven’t actually made direct eye contact with our toes in some time, have a more realistic outlook toward the holidays. Thankfully, while I was out shopping the other day, my friend Chuck called to remind me of another interesting, yet seldom contemplated, aspect of this season. I’m referring, of course, to the numerous charitable donation stations of The Salvation Army.
What Chuck found so fascinating is that there are no other documented branches of the Salvation war machine. Why isn’t there a Salvation Navy…hmmmm? This could be a very useful way to get much needed pool equipment or water sports gear to those in need. Imagine yourself trying to fight back the tears when you see a muddy-faced, street urchin being presented with his very first kayak or a wrinkled, old man trying on a newly acquired, and barely used, Speedo. All this inspiring magic, courtesy of The Salvation Navy, would surely bring a lump to the throat of the most cynical, wretched bastard, which is really what this season is all about; making the intolerable, tolerable for a couple of months, so we don’t kill them in shopping lines. I don’t think I’d trust anything supplied by The Salvation Air Force. I could be way off here but I’m fairly certain most, not all, but most indigents have no need for used air-sick bags and complimentary headsets, which have been previously inserted into the waxy, ear canals of complete strangers. I could see potentially, the creation of The Salvation Reserves in the near future. Volunteers would only be required to work one weekend a year and they can keep their full-time jobs. They wouldn’t see any real action braving the cold, outside crowded malls, no sir! These troops would be deployed inside the confines of warm restaurants and nightclubs. Of course, a rift between the “real” Salvation Army workers and the reserves would eventually boil over into an all-out, bloodbath in the streets across America. Senseless violence and streets piled high with the dead are the kind of things communities tend to distance themselves from, especially during the holidays, so perhaps the Reserves isn’t such a good idea after all. The time spent contemplating this organization opened my eyes to a disturbing fact, that as a writer, I’m bound to share with you. Brace yourselves…The Salvation Army isn’t really an army at all. This mind-blowing truth made me start to question other aspects of our armed forces that may not be all they’re cracked up to be.
Keep this information on the down-low, as it’s highly classified. Navy SEALS aren’t actually seals. They’re not the amicable, slippery, oceanic mammals we thought they were but instead, an elite and highly trained contingent of soldiers, specializing in deadly warfare. So deadly in fact, rumor has it they can kill you, using nothing but a short length of licorice whip and a throw pillow. When I was 8, I saw “Day of the Dolphin” wherein assassinations were being executed by trained dolphins. I just figured, over time, the Navy decided to use a mammal capable of killing in the water and possessing the ability to waddle out onto dry land, assume an undercover role in a circus, honking horns and balancing large colorful balls on their snout, then kill unsuspecting, potential terrorists who were out for a day of fun under the Big Top. Brilliant!
Get this, I found another misrepresentation by a specific group of our fighting forces. Commando’s, do in fact, wear underpants! Shocking! Whenever I’ve treated myself and the “fellas” to a day or two of unconfined undie freedom, I’ve always referred to it as “Going Commando.” Well, after checking this out for myself, and a severe beating I might add, turns out they’re required to wear briefs at all times. These disturbing revelations have made me question another thing about the army which has been troubling me for quite some time.
I know, in WW II, we defeated Hitler and the Third Reich. The world celebrated and we moved on. Simple enough. Well then, why am I the only one fearful and talking about, the blatant lack of concern over the First and Second Reich curiously, still at large? The Government has hushed it all up and yet, those rogue Reich’s are out there…plotting…waiting to strike again. Combat rule number one, laid down at the Lake Geneva Convention; don’t be content destroying Reich number 3, when 1 & 2 are still out frivolously “Reiching.”
Perhaps I’ve underestimated our countries defense. Maybe that’s the mission of The Salvation Army, to sniff out and destroy factions of the free running Reich’s, under the guise of bell-ringing, common-folk dressed like the Maytag repairman. If you live long enough, you learn many interesting things you thought previously innocent and harmless. This year, I learned something vital to my future efforts on this blog…if at all possible, avoid suggestions from my friend Chuck. It can lead to WW III and who wants that so close to the holidays?
What Chuck found so fascinating is that there are no other documented branches of the Salvation war machine. Why isn’t there a Salvation Navy…hmmmm? This could be a very useful way to get much needed pool equipment or water sports gear to those in need. Imagine yourself trying to fight back the tears when you see a muddy-faced, street urchin being presented with his very first kayak or a wrinkled, old man trying on a newly acquired, and barely used, Speedo. All this inspiring magic, courtesy of The Salvation Navy, would surely bring a lump to the throat of the most cynical, wretched bastard, which is really what this season is all about; making the intolerable, tolerable for a couple of months, so we don’t kill them in shopping lines. I don’t think I’d trust anything supplied by The Salvation Air Force. I could be way off here but I’m fairly certain most, not all, but most indigents have no need for used air-sick bags and complimentary headsets, which have been previously inserted into the waxy, ear canals of complete strangers. I could see potentially, the creation of The Salvation Reserves in the near future. Volunteers would only be required to work one weekend a year and they can keep their full-time jobs. They wouldn’t see any real action braving the cold, outside crowded malls, no sir! These troops would be deployed inside the confines of warm restaurants and nightclubs. Of course, a rift between the “real” Salvation Army workers and the reserves would eventually boil over into an all-out, bloodbath in the streets across America. Senseless violence and streets piled high with the dead are the kind of things communities tend to distance themselves from, especially during the holidays, so perhaps the Reserves isn’t such a good idea after all. The time spent contemplating this organization opened my eyes to a disturbing fact, that as a writer, I’m bound to share with you. Brace yourselves…The Salvation Army isn’t really an army at all. This mind-blowing truth made me start to question other aspects of our armed forces that may not be all they’re cracked up to be.
Keep this information on the down-low, as it’s highly classified. Navy SEALS aren’t actually seals. They’re not the amicable, slippery, oceanic mammals we thought they were but instead, an elite and highly trained contingent of soldiers, specializing in deadly warfare. So deadly in fact, rumor has it they can kill you, using nothing but a short length of licorice whip and a throw pillow. When I was 8, I saw “Day of the Dolphin” wherein assassinations were being executed by trained dolphins. I just figured, over time, the Navy decided to use a mammal capable of killing in the water and possessing the ability to waddle out onto dry land, assume an undercover role in a circus, honking horns and balancing large colorful balls on their snout, then kill unsuspecting, potential terrorists who were out for a day of fun under the Big Top. Brilliant!
Get this, I found another misrepresentation by a specific group of our fighting forces. Commando’s, do in fact, wear underpants! Shocking! Whenever I’ve treated myself and the “fellas” to a day or two of unconfined undie freedom, I’ve always referred to it as “Going Commando.” Well, after checking this out for myself, and a severe beating I might add, turns out they’re required to wear briefs at all times. These disturbing revelations have made me question another thing about the army which has been troubling me for quite some time.
I know, in WW II, we defeated Hitler and the Third Reich. The world celebrated and we moved on. Simple enough. Well then, why am I the only one fearful and talking about, the blatant lack of concern over the First and Second Reich curiously, still at large? The Government has hushed it all up and yet, those rogue Reich’s are out there…plotting…waiting to strike again. Combat rule number one, laid down at the Lake Geneva Convention; don’t be content destroying Reich number 3, when 1 & 2 are still out frivolously “Reiching.”
Perhaps I’ve underestimated our countries defense. Maybe that’s the mission of The Salvation Army, to sniff out and destroy factions of the free running Reich’s, under the guise of bell-ringing, common-folk dressed like the Maytag repairman. If you live long enough, you learn many interesting things you thought previously innocent and harmless. This year, I learned something vital to my future efforts on this blog…if at all possible, avoid suggestions from my friend Chuck. It can lead to WW III and who wants that so close to the holidays?
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