At least, that’s what I thought back in the mid ’70’s when I lived in an apartment in Worth, Il. I was just me and my mom at that point and I spent a lot of time on my own. We had food but not much and sometimes I needed something a bit different than left over chop suey or pot roast. >shudder< I walked everywhere back then, as I was only 13 or 14. Walked to school, which was a mile away, dentist appt.’s, the drug store where they had some comics, my cousin’s house, all the same area, a mile away from the apartment. But a mile in the opposite direction was only one destination for me. Pepe’s. I think they charged .35 cents a taco or some ridiculously cheap price, so if I scraped up a little over a dollar, I could feast on three beef tacos. I had to make sure to grab extra hot sauce packets because their hot sauce really made the experience. So, a two mile round trip walk for three tacos. It was worth it.
But I would often put myself through some trial or another for foods that I liked. A few years earlier, when we still lived in Oak Lawn, it was considered a huge treat to go to Jack in the Box. I loved the Jumbo Jack Burger but also their tacos. Another very distinct and wonderful taco recipe. Their tacos’ meat was almost sealed into a hard shell, so on the outer edges would be this crisp, hard, crunchy shell but when you got past the hard shell “moat” to the meat, the shell was softened and it was like hitting the mother-load of flavor. One time, I had to go to the dentist to have about ten teeth removed, mostly baby teeth I believe to make room for the new permanent ones coming in. Seems my mouth was too small and things were going sideways in there. Anyway, they extracted all ten or eleven teeth, so although I had the front four on top and bottom, I was missing most all of the sides and things were very tender. As a treat, my mom took me to Jack in the Box and of course, I had the tacos. Turns out, when tackling those hard, nasty, crunchy edges of taco shell, you really need those side teeth, not raw, newly exposed, bloody gums. Yeah. That was not pretty. Oh, but Christ, the soft meat was great when I got to it. Speaking of pain…
Moving forward again in time back to Worth, I think I was probably 15 (?) and I had braces. Each month, I had to hike over to the orthodontist to get them tightened up. Whenever this was done, the teeth would be *extremely* sensitive. The slightest pressure would be murderous for the next day. But here’s the thing. The diner across the street from the orthodontist had the greatest Italian cheeseburger ever. It was just the patty, marinara and mozzarella on a bun but that and a vanilla shake was pure heaven, so each and every appointment, I went there immediately after the appointment. No, I couldn’t go before the appointment because I had to do a good job of brushing my teeth before hand. And no, I didn’t want to come back another day because it was a mile walk and I was right there! So, I’d get my burger and of course, every bite into it was slow and tear-inducingly painful. It was so good, yet hurt so bad.
I’d love to say this is yet another look into what makes me tick but it’s becoming painfully obvious that I’m an idiot that loves the taste of food too much for my own good. Not much mystery there.
Should probably get this one out there before my mind completely blocks out the experience.
Middle of last August, I was at Northwestern for a week so they could collect my stem cells. This was so they could freeze them, and I don’t know, run them through a strainer of some sort–basically make sure they were fresh and healthy stem cells, to be re-transplanted into me a week or so later, right after Labor Day. The hospital was good enough to comp my stay at Worcester House, an apartment complex a couple blocks away from NW. A small, basic apartment room with a fridge for food and medicine, and two single beds. This was very nice of them to do, because otherwise, I would have had to travel back and forth every day, which would have been a big pain, especially for my wife, who was driving me. Linda brought me there on that Sunday night, so we could get the necessary early start the next day starting the collection week. All that being said, the place wasn’t the greatest.
Not particularly clean and worst of all, the single beds were hard mattresses, covered with plastic and a couple flimsy sheets. These were beds for the transient, the incontinent, the dying, the fairly messed up and, at times, bloody patients that stayed there. There was no malevolence in the design, just the way they had to prep the beds for … us.
Now, anyone keeping track back then will note some of the day to day photos I took of the time in the hotel room. Random visuals meant to interest, chill, and possibly concern you, but mostly give you an idea what I was dealing with at the time. Monday, we had to get up at 6am, walk to the hospital, get blood drawn, then off to the operating room, where they prepped me and inserted a six inch line into my neck, and down toward my heart. And so, once inserted, from my neck then sprung three cables to connect to various machines during the coming week. My collection was to start on Tuesday morning.
So, we went back to the Worcester House, and at the appointed time that night, I had to give myself four injections of Nupogen that would heighten my stem cell production. I would have to give myself four injections each night at a certain hour. I’d already been doing this at home for the past four nights, and had four more to go. In the end, I would end up giving myself 32 injections in different parts of my body. It is *every* bit as fun as it sounds.
Tuesday morning, we got up at 7am, walked to the hospital, they took blood, and then I’d be hooked into The Chair for 6 or 7 hours, listening to the chug chug chug of the collection machine. There was no disconnecting possible for the duration, so, I had a handy urinal at my disposal. They also offered a mobile toilet set up. I withheld. Linda would go walk the town and bring me back treats. A vanilla shake in the midst of a day like that was heavenly. Yes, she is a saint. After the very long day of being drained, looking at fat plastic bags of my collected stem cells, (looked a lot like marinara), we ambled back to the apartment complex. Grabbed something to eat (not marinara), gave myself injections, and off to bed.
Wednesday *night* was the point of this particular blog entry. Maybe it was the many bizarre, unfamiliar, somewhat painful and exhausting new elements in my daily schedule. Sleeping on the plastic bed was not great and the slightest movement meant you’d kick the sheets off and were laying on sticky, sweaty, plastic. The air conditioning would kick on loudly, as would the fridge, to startle me every 15 minutes, then deadly silence when they’d shut off. I also always sleep on my right, but the assortment of 6″ long plastic dreadlocks protruding from the right side of my neck made that problematic. I’ll also never get actual dreadlocks because of this incident, so hopefully that’ll put your mind at ease, if you were actually worrying about that.
After laying in a chair all day, and not really being able to do much in the way of exercise, I just lay there wide awake those nights, but that was okay, because sleeping was worse. You know when you have a really bad nightmare, then you wake up and are relieved? You might even start laughing at how absurd the dream was?
My experience was quite different those particular nights. I had nightmares about intruders in the hotel room, people coming to strangle me, being vulnerable, not being able to move, being trapped. In the dream, I wanted to open my eyes but I couldn’t, I was helpless. The kind of panicked delirium dreams you have when you’re sick. But part of this horrible dream was being in that hotel room, in pain, on that miserable bed, with things growing out of my neck. And I would wake up to a reality which was just as bad as the nightmare.
So I lay there sweating and shaking. Trying to find the part where I was relieved to be awake. No such luck. I think that night, I experienced Night-Terrors for the first time. So THAT’S what that felt like. That sucked. I was scared, depressed, and I just wanted all this to be over with. Oh, and just to make this picture one notch more pathetic, I also had this twitch. Some semblance of the meds, the injections, and whatever else was coursing through my body was making me occasionally convulse. Great for sleeping. A sad, sweaty Borg on a plastic bed, convulsing, with tears running down his cheeks, fighting off Night-Terrors. Sorry ladies…. he’s taken.
Now, here’s the thing. It was 3am. Linda was in the other horrible single bed, asleep. She was leaving in the morning to go back to work Thursday and Friday. Sure, I could have waken her up and she’d be there for me. But sharing my immediate dilemma–it would have unnecessarily over-worried her the rest of the week, and might re-evaluate leaving me alone in that place. And I felt she had to get back to work. The school she works at is great, as are the people, and they’d been incredibly supportive and generous every step of the way. That being said, she’d already taken three days off that week and I had no idea how many *more* she might have to take in the future, so it was best she go back and most importantly, not worry about me any more than she was already. So I wasn’t going to wake her.
And really, those f****** beds were so horrible and small, she wouldn’t even have been able to lay with me and the dreads.
So there I lay, needing a distraction. Something to engage me and point my mind in a different direction. At 3:30 in the morning. So, I decided to compose an email to a friend of mine, Eric, on the east coast. An email that detailed my current position, situation and state of mind, and that sorry, my friend, you get the short straw listening to all this. An email so sad, dark and depressing that it might alarm some people but A) I think I couched it within the proper context of it being really just a very bad night and the email was some much needed therapy, and a distraction, B) Eric knows me well enough to get what I was doing, yet C) if I sent this to any *local* friend, it might have gotten back to Linda and worried her even more.
Writing the email worked pretty well. Talking about it, or writing about it did help. I think I felt a bit better that night afterward. Never got much sleep. There was much more thinking. See, whenever I’m in a bad scenario, and I’m feeling sorry for myself, I’m usually quick to *remind* myself that a lot of people have it worse than me. Whether it’s health, finances, etc., I’ve usually been luckier than most. Even there, in that lousy bed, with a shock of medical cables jutting from my carotid artery, shaking, sweating and swiping at imaginary dream demons, this was all a medical exercise to HELP me. Yes, I was miserable–and I didn’t yet know that the worst was yet to come the following month—but this was all for my benefit. A benefit denied to many others. Oh, and lest you think I’m overly noble, all this flowery pontificating is all well and good but that night, I probably wasn’t mentally chronicling the world’s underprivileged. I didn’t feel particularly lucky at that moment. Just mostly uncomfortable. I think at one point, I probably just thought “Someone’s probably worse off, right? Sure.” And also “My neck hurts.” And tried to stay off the plastic.
So Lin went home early Thursday morning. I just did what I had to the next two days, which were just as shitty, then she came back and got me Friday night and took me home.
You’ll be happy to know the twitching died down by year’s end. Bonus!
Let’s contrast and compare the stories of two different men. In two different decades, they had very different experiences when it came to jumping out of a plane.
RICK’S STORY: During the mid 1980’s, Rick was unattached in every way. No real job, or girlfriend, no direction, no urgency, no ties. The thought occurred to him somehow that he might try skydiving. The logic being that if something went wrong, no one was dependent on him, he had no debt and only a small portion of the populace would grieve, but they’d get over it. Really, if he was going to try this, now would be the best, perhaps only time.
DUGGLE’S STORY: it was the early 1970’s. In a storeroom deep within a television studio, a man sat alone in darkness. Still as unto a statue, he listened to all the various signs of life within the building. One level above, Marjorie had dropped a teabag on the floor…and then quickly scooped it up. “Ha ha, three second rule, Marjorie”, he chuckled. On the other side of the building in his office, Marty was zipping and unzipping a tote bag. But what was this? Bill seemed to be coming his way down the hall, carrying a slip of paper…heavier stock. A card? Coupon?
Bill entered the storeroom and approached Duggles, handed him a card detailing the opportunity for a free skydive experience via the studio. Duggles was intrigued. Rare was the experience he had not already conquered. In his relatively short time on this precious blue marble, he’d experienced, and dominated all earthly concerns but yes, YES, they were all of the Earth, Fire and Water. It was time he turned his inestimable attention to Air itself. Bill turned to leave but Duggles froze him in place with a gesture. “Make the arrangements, Bill.” said Duggles, paused…and then he said “You’re a good man, Bill.” Bill smiled his unfortunate smile and loped away to make the arrangements for the jump. Duggles turned back into the shadows, thinking thoughts…. beyond our scope.
NOW, Rick’s plan was mainly to get in, do the jump, and get it over with, as he was no daredevil. Basically, he wasn’t crazy about heights but he was going to see this through. He had dinner with his friend Linda the night before the jump, and detailed his plan. They’d had history but were presently just friends, officially, nothing more. “No attachments” was part of the reason Rick felt this was the time to jump out of a plane. When better? But at dinner that night, Linda seemed fairly certain that Rick would die the next day and when they said goodbye that night, whether it was the impending foretelling of doom or the margaritas, the kiss spoke of more than just friendship.
The next morning, Rick’s co-worker Robin picked him up and off they went. Robin was also interested in attempting a jump and he offered to drive. Upon arrival at the dive center though, everyone was immediately asked to sign a waiver stating the dive center would not be responsible if anything went wrong. Rick signed it but Robin did not, suddenly not trusting the whole situation, so he’d sit it out and just wait for Rick.
Rick’s main plan of going in, doing it and getting out, all without spending a ton of time thinking about it went to crap. In addition to dealing with the hangover from the margaritas, he had to sit through 3 hours of tests and prep for the jump, basically forcing him to THINK about it. THINK about everything. Make sure to keep the right position. Make sure to pull THIS cord, not THAT one. Land this way. Stay away from the lake. Stay away from the power lines. And most of all, he thought about Linda and after last night’s goodbye, how maybe he did have an attachment after all. He was definitely THINKING about all of this too much.
DUGGLES arrived at the dive center, –there were no waiver forms (it was the ’70’s), and waited, brooded impatiently as the instructor prattled on about “danger, power lines, drowning” blah blah blah, HE WANTED TO TASTE THE AIR, TO EAT ITS VERY SOUL!!!!!! The very air around him crackled with energy.
RICK’S class was nearly at an end and they were preparing to jump within the hour. At this point, Robin said he had to get back. This took Rick by surprise and was an extra added inconvenience as Robin was Rick’s ride there, but he perhaps never imagined the experience would take nearly this long. So Rick went back home with Robin, got his car, and immediately returned to the center, only to find out the jump had been rained out. Interesting. Rick had done a lot of thinking by this point and when they offered him the chance to come back the following week, he passed. He now had too much to lose. The End.
THE force of nature that was Duggles would not be denied. There were rain clouds in the distance, prompting the pilots and instructors to congregate and debate the merits of attempting the jump. They discussed and contemplated and conferred until a shadow loomed over them. “Excuse me,” he intoned, “but does the sky frighten you? I might mistake you for timid woodland creatures searching for nuts but you SEEM to be standing upright like men…. SO I SUGGEST YOU SECURE YOUR NUTS AND GET ME UP THERE TO FACE GOD.”
They immediately scattered into action.
The plane that carried them thundering through the sky was large, and powerful, much like Duggle’s spirit. He prepped for the jump. Looking out the open doorway though, the corners of his mouth turned downward. A mere 10,000 foot drop. This seemed like an insult. He made his way to the cockpit, and once there, kicked aside empty cans of Hamms and reached with the pilot. The Viet Nam vet arched an eyebrow as Duggles mouth whispered in his ear “Is this kindergarten or are we making a real jump out of this?” The pilot just plastered a type of grim reaper smile on his face, nodded, and pulled back on the wheel, sending them higher. As he turned to go, Duggles uttered “Fantastic, my man.”
The other jumpers started to advance on Duggles as he returned from the cockpit, demanding answers for the change in altitude. Duggles simply turned his head in their direction, freezing them in place with… The Steely Gaze.
The other jumpers could do naught but stare, and fall *into* that Gaze.
A Gaze that seemed to both comfort and disturb.
A Gaze that asked them what they wanted out of life and if they’d taken steps to grab it. Control it. Conquer it.
A Gaze that told them that they were going as high as this plane could take them. The hell with the physics. You would either wilt under that Gaze or feed on it. Duggles didn’t wait to see what the other jumpers would do. That was on them.
The pilot turned and gave Duggles the thumbs up and sure enough, the air was getting mighty thin. Getting close to ruffling some cosmic feathers now. The other jumpers gasped and struggled for air, panicking.
A calm settled over Duggles. His heartbeat slowed. There was nothing except him and the doorway…. a doorway of light and nothing.
Duggles dove through it.
At first, he curled up into a ball, a spinning sphere of rock hard, fetal mayhem, wanting to be reborn high above the earth. The chill he felt wore away as his speed increased. Soon, the oxygen was more plentiful. Then, and only then, did he break his fetal form, bursting forth from the upper atmospheric uterus, stretching and screaming into the Air itself, ripping at the clouds, demanding that gravity KEEP UP, DAMN YOU, as he hurtled toward the dirt. Fighting against the ever increasing pressure, Duggles slowly, painfully reached forward an outstretched hand….and suddenly silence. He spoke softly. “Gaia, my orb. My love, take me.”
AND WITH A CRACK OF THUNDER, AND DANCE OF LIGHTNING, DUGGLES DID FALL TOWARD THE QUIVERING, WET PLANET.
And when he got close…
He teased the ground with his presence, and when it looked like he’d splatter himself across the countryside, he mocked Mother Earth by pulling his shoot, a billowing climax in the sky.
Finally, his feet once again rested upon Terra. He took in his surroundings…. a field, perhaps half a mile away from target. Not bad.
He noticed movement in the distance. A dust trail marking new arrivals. Soon, shapes formed. A biker gang coming his way. Upon reaching him, they started circling, a wide berth but close enough to flash their colors. The 30 odd members of “The Apathetic Transgressors” went round and round, while Duggles seemingly took no notice, busy gathering in his spilt silk.
One biker broke formation, stopping directly in front of him. Duggles paid him no mind. The biker silenced his hog, stabbed the earth with the kickstand and dismounted, leaving his supple old lady lonely and straddling the sissy bar. The hairy giant stepped up to Duggles, bristling jaw thrust out defiantly, looking down at this intruder on his turf. Duggles finished gathering his parachute and looked first the name patch the behemoth wore “Moglongo”, and then directly up into his eyes. Moglongo started to speak. “You trespassin’, little m–” But Duggles had already balled up his fist full of silk, and hurled it like a honey baked ham, impacting the center of the bigger man’s face, obliterating what used to be his nose. Moglongo crumpled to the ground, emitting a small “queee” sound.
Duggles looked around. No one else was making any threatening moves. Some nodding approval in his direction. He mounted his new bike with his new old lady on it. Both felt good as they started up and turned around.
The earth was still spinning. He had things to do.
The End.
(Although both stories are true, one is slightly exaggerated a bit.)
Another series I’ve been hittin’ pretty hard is Comic Tropes, with host Chris Piers. Now, honestly, there is a huge amount of crap on YouTube regarding comics. Many channels tout announcements, analysis and reviews about comic based movies, tv shows and comics and ultimately, they have very little to nothing to say. That old saw about 75% of everything being crap? Yep, holds true here as well. But Comic Tropes is a different animal. In it, Piers highlights certain comic creators and their tropes– certain things they will do over and over again in most stories, be it writers or artists. He also looks at past trends, high profile stories of the past, the industry, everything, kind of a hodge-podge but always connected to comics. He spotlights the Fantastic, the good, the bad, and the laughably bad.
But Chris Piers is a different type of host. First, he seems to be a friendly, even handed, well spoken, intelligent and diplomatic comic fan. He respects others opinions, while pointing out why he likes or dislikes certain things. Also, as a YouTube channel host, it’s what he doesn’t do. There’s a gimmick that so many aspiring YouTube celebrities subscribe to: in an effort to keep the dialog fast paced, they edit out every nanosecond between lines of dialog, trying to make it seem more manic and well, smarter (?), I guess, but it gets annoying to me. Chris doesn’t do that.
He speaks his peace and speaks it well. He often opens with a quick comedic greeting, then kicks into the titles and off he goes. He occasionally gets a bit silly but not ridiculously so. He just has fun. It’s quite refreshing to see someone who’s positive on the ‘net, yet when he does get critical, it’s very measured and reasonable. It’s *really* damn refreshing.
The average running time on the episodes average about 20 minutes, meaning, especially now, if you’ve got an evening to kill at home (!), there’s plenty of his content to sample. I believe he’s done over 200 eps on YouTube and evidently, he has a lot of live streams taped where you can watch him draw while people can comment, which I have yet to check out. He also has a Patreon account. If you like some discussion and well thought out analysis on comics from all eras, genres, creators, etc., I highly recommend the channel.
Theresa, unbeknownst to me, started learning Swedish a while back. Kudos to her! So when the next family reunion happens, she can join in the Swedish speaking portion of the discussions.
There are never Swedish speaking portions of the discussions.
A couple sections of the family know a bit of it but by and large, we’ve let the language die in our family and this saddens me. My grandparents, especially my grandfather, knew some Swedish but I don’t think he ever taught it to my mom, because she never taught it to me. I guess he figured he was in America so he spoke English, period. Ah well.
Theresa has been learning the language from an app called DuoLingo. I hope I’m spelling it right but it’s apparently a much better learning tool than Rosetta Stone. RS starts you out with objects and small sentences. I imagine they have their reasons but when I was trying to learn some Greek for our trip back in ’07, it gave me nothing helpful like “hello” or “good morning” or “For the love of god, where’s the bathroom?”. I actually got more useful phrases and information in only 15 minutes from our next door neighbors who are Greek, than I did after two months of intensive study with Rosetta Stone.
It’s a free app and I’m tempted. But then the question is, which one do I go for? I could go for Swedish, so I can converse with Theresa and maybe other family members. I could go with Japanese and converse with Matthew, since he’s taken like four years of it. I could go back to Spanish, since I took two years of it in high school and I enjoyed it. I could go with Italian, as it’s a beautiful language and some day, maybe we might go back there for another trip. OR they also offer Klingon, which, I’ve gotta say is very tempting and sounds fun. They even have Esperanto, the universal language, which I don’t think anyone uses. Or do they? Not even considering that one.
So, where do I go with this? Some would definitely be easier than others.
Decisions, decisions. Which of the five?
Swedish, Italian, Japanese, Spanish or Klingon? Can’t decide.
Alright, I’ll try all five.
How hard can that be? Plus, I have little patience with myself. Or most other things.
I’m not really into the whole sword and sorcery/fantasy stuff. You may have thought I was because of the sci-fi, time travel and superhero stuff but no, that ain’t my thing. Crazy ass names I can never pronounce or remember (one of the many reasons I wasn’t into Game of Thrones), goofy wizards and magic everywhere. Flibbbidity-flu!
Some people are BIG into the role play board games like Dungeons and Dragons but I’ve always considered that way too much effort for a board game. To me, a game shouldn’t last more than a couple hours tops.
The closest I’ve ever gotten to this was Heroclix. That’s a game involving miniature superhero and villain figures (about an inch and a half tall) that have dials built into their stands. It’s an ingenious design, where a character starts out at full strength but when they meet an opponent in battle and lose if the dice roll goes against them, they take a couple turns on their dial and lose strength, speed, etc. If enough damage is taken on, they die. There are a lot of tactics as the characters meet on a map and battle it out. There’s a lot less advance planning involved though, and really, no world building.
D&D is all about world building, developing characters, creating campaigns and god knows what else but ultimately, it’s a lot of effort and the games stretch out for anywhere from weeks to months to years, depending on how often the participants gather, the pace of the campaign, etc. it seems they can vary wildly. My daughter was part of an ongoing bi-weekly campaign with her friends for months. From what I heard, there didn’t seem to be a lot of forward progress, although Theresa’s character did set someone on fire once and they walked through a town but that seemed like that’s all that happened. Matthew’s crew, on the other hand, has just been going crazy with quests, missions, invisible giants, chaotic evil, the works. It actually sounds like fun but again, seemingly a big time commitment.
Recently, I got together with my regular Bad Video night crew (me, Mike, Don, Jim and Doug), but for the first time in the 35+ history, it was a virtual gathering via Zoom. Aside from a couple sound issues, it worked well and if we got hammered, no one had to worry about driving home. Bonus!
But we also wondered about what else we could do together online, and while there were a few suggestions, Mike joked about playing D&D. I later proclaimed that if we did it, Mike would be dungeon master, knowing full well he’d never take on the assignment as it’s waaaaay too much work. Neither would I.
But, as always, at a certain point, I start thinking about it and if we did do it, here’s how some of our characters might look:
*Mike would be a Sewage-Wizard named Gluuurrmonstgansh. He would live in an underground lair, festooned with feces to keep intruders away but can pluck one of his eyeballs out and send it flying around anywhere, to see all things. Kind of like a modern day drone. Meanwhile, he can also detach his mouth and fly it anywhere to communicate with anyone. His nose can detach but can only run.
*Don is WAHHHtoomph, is a simple storekeeper and a metamorph that can transform–at will– into an eleven foot tall creature consisting entirely of screaming baby heads of varying sizes. The crying can sometimes turn into devastating sonic screams.
*Jim is Shastaliternalipp, a one legged, 14 fingered mage that can create anything imaginable out of glass. Each glass creation is remarkably fragile and will shatter at a touch, sending thousands of razor sharp shards of glass slicing through the air for a distance of no less than 100 miles but no more than 102 miles at nearly the speed of sound.
*Doug is Vvanderhamlanannopengliadishvon III, a philanthropic, erudite elf that can mimic anyone else’s power but every time he does so, he will either grow twice his normal size or shrink to half his present size.
*I would be Rotterdammurungstrom, a scheming traveler who long ago found an enchanted mallet. Anyone I hit with my enchanted mallet transforms into a 31 foot tall toad that spews acid and burps lightning. I wear a protective slicker. My mallet speaks to me in a disrespectful manner.
There, I’ve accomplished something in the world of D&D.
In the mid ’80’s, Linda and I went to some family cottage off a lake with another couple, Judy and Bob. It was a fun weekend and a good time was had by all, although I vaguely recall almost getting us killed at a country bar by constantly yelling “Yeeehaaaaa!” whilst in my cups. Drunken bad judgement. I could tell you stories. Hey, I am! All in all, it was good though, with the exception of the tubing incident. That got a bit dicey.
As a reminder, I have this weird thing where I’ve got to be grounded in some fashion, in some stable form of environment that I can control or some combination thereof. Floating, swimming and/or sinking in water does not compute with my system. I don’t know — I really do wonder some times if I’m on the spectrum. Cataloging, labeling and micromanaging every child’s actions and behavior started *after* my time as a kid. That and Transformers.
So, with everyone at the cottage –I think– having the complete knowledge that I’m uncomfortable around open bodies of water, as well as being swallowed up by them, we all agreed to try a little tubing. This of course is where a boat speeds through the water dragging someone on a tube instead of on water skis, which is a different skill set but the tube is easier to balance I think. I agreed so as not to be a stick in the mud, also probably figuring there’d be a floatation device employed and I wanted to show off my mad skillz to Linda, who, although we weren’t really dating yet, I like liked her. 🙂 So, I was fitted with a life preserver– which should have been the end of the drama — and out we went, the girls driving the boat, Bob and me on the tube.
The first round went well, they did a few turns and banks but we held firm on the rope’s handle. It wasn’t easy though, as you try to compensate the weight distribution of both of you on each turn, going into and out of it, as it’s fairly precarious. We managed to hold out for the ten minutes for the round. I assume it was maybe ten minutes but when you’re holding on and doing the whole compensation thing, etc., feels a LOT longer. On the boat, the girls would signal “Again? Faster?” And Bob gave the thumbs up. “YES”. Well, ok, I can do it again Bob, if you can, you goof you.
Round two saw faster speeds, sharper banks and went for what felt like 2 hours and 27 minutes, as I held tight, body spread out on the tube, every bit of my body acting like memory foam, adjusting, compensating, compensating. Finally, the round was done, we’d survived again and I’d had enough. I managed to stay above water and confound the boat’s attempt to upend me. Signal from the boat “Again? Faster?” I was starting to wave them off– Bob signals “YES”. Bob, you sunnuvabitch. I managed great during the first two, I’m less confident now, as I think the girls are really warming up to the challenge.
Round three saw greater speeds, banks, probably a twirl, I don’t know. Every muscle in my body is either screaming for release, focusing on grip strength or finding new and imaginative ways of shifting my internal mass in whatever direction it needed to keep the damn tube on the surface. And I’m pretty sure Bob’s not trying to compensate for anything. I’m doing that for the both of us. But what ho, you say Rick, so you go in the water, so what? Well, to you, it’s the water. To me, it’s a type of terror in liquid form hiding more terror underneath. So, you see what the incentive level is for me here to keep this sucker on the surface. Finally, the 37 hour marathon third round ends and once more, we are victorious, for I am tenacious. The girls sig–Bob signals “YES” — BOB, YOU MOTHERLESS **********!
The boat’s just ripping through the water, zipping here and there, careening, banking twirling, spinning, jumping sharks, being shot at by spies, WHATEVER. My toes are now white-knuckling their grip on the front of our blow up raft, my shoulder blades have protruded enough to hug the central ribbing of the craft and my anus is desperately attempting a meaningful attachment to the tube through my trunks. Compensating….compensating….compensating.
Finally, one turn too many, and instantly I knew the jig was up, as I just couldn’t compensate on the last turn, felt it all giving way. With a loud SMERPOP of my skin separating from the plastic, I was flying up and above the water….as I was still holding onto the bar. I snapped out of it and fell into the Terror below, went under, glub glub, all that, popped up, thanks to the preserver. Bob paddled over with the raft and I managed to crawl onboard. I did like Bob. Fun guy. And he likes the water, so he didn’t see his actions as evil.
But that was the last time I ever went tubing because frankly, I feel I did it and did it well, and since it wasn’t really *that* enjoyable, I probably don’t ever have to do it again.
The next installment when I do it, will feature snorkeling.
There were seven of us guys who decided to all pitch in and rent a jeep for the day to go explore the island of Oahu. Full disclosure, I can’t remember the names of any of the guys — this being a class trip, we were all kind of thrown together–but we were clearly anxious for a road trip. There was one guy who was legitimately 18 and had a proper ID (unlike me with my phony FOI card) that could be used to put the jeep in his name. We convinced him to do so, even though he wasn’t even going with us. He and a few others were renting mopeds. Good luck with the handbrakes! I’m going to say the guy who technically rented the jeep *in* his name was “Steve”.
Off we went, zooming around the island. Saw some beautiful sights and soon we were into a rather strange area where it was all red dirt. Must have been a lot of excavation and construction around, as we saw traces of it here and there. I’m not entirely sure it was open to the public but I don’t think there were any signs posted to keep us out. That was odd, because the land was really pretty chopped up, dug out — kind of like digging out land to pour foundations, etc. but there was nobody around doing anything, so we just motored around, totally surrounded by red rock, red dirt, everywhere. And that’s why it happened. Visibility while driving around all this red dirt was a bit tricky, as one surface was indistinguishable from another, like say, drop offs.
We were cruising along, all packed in the jeep– two in front, five in back–when suddenly, the co pilot sees an EDGE in the ground coming fast, and impossible to see until we were almost on top of it. Red dirt on the ledge, red dirt in the distance, almost seamless. Well, the guy driving reacts as quick as he can and slams on the brakes and we skid forward. The front tires go over the edge, we freeze, as we go over edge, hanging onto the roll bar for dear life as we all stare down at more red dirt– but how far down IS the ground? Turns out, five feet, as the front of the jeep hit the ground and for a second, the jeep’s ass end was straight up in the air with all of us clinging onto it. Then, for what seemed like a year, we hovered there, wondering if we were going to flip forward or back, before finally, gratefully, settling back, with the rear tires on the ledge. We carefully got off and of course began the high fives of survival! Hell yeah! Then we had to figure out to get the jeep off the ledge. We also decided to not mention this to Steve.
Thanks to some lumber from a nearby construction site, we were able to cobble together a ramp of sorts, get it into neutral, and roll it down. On with the trip! We opted for more off roading but away from the red dirt and things got a little muddy but not bad. We did get a bit too close to some off limits area where we ran across some barbed wire fencing that scratched the hell out of the vehicle but after the ledge, we just rolled with it and decided to not mention that to Steve either.
Eventually, after several hours out and about, we hit the highway to take the jeep back. Cruising at 80 in the diamond lane, we noticed a weird humming noise and a shimmying. I was positioned up on the back right end hanging off the roll bar of the jeep. Looking down, I saw the right rear wheel wobbling, it looked bad but it was so loud with the wind, no one could hear me anyway, so I made a wobbly hand gesture and we had to hope it’d hold out until we got back. Thankfully, it did. We decided not to mention that to Steve either. We returned the jeep to the rental place, making sure the torn up left side was facing away from the office and back to the hotel we went.
A day or so later, we hadn’t heard anything regarding any trouble with the jeep, so during the final night’s celebration, we told Steve, who of course freaked out. But all in all, it was a helluva great time in Hawaii.
The flight home was mostly like a Twilight Zone episode. It was only like a nine hour flight back home because of tail winds but we were sort of racing the sun — because we gained five hours going back, it never really got dark, so, no night and two whole days blended together into one long, crazy day.
I’m not sure if I’m posting my “Man of Infrequent Action” series before or after this but it certainly applies.
The days were for excursions and we decided to rent some mopeds and scoot around Oahu, specifically for a few of us–Diamond head, the inactive volcano. It took some adjustment, getting the hang of the vehicle. The accelerator was contained within one handle bar grip, the brake, in the other. Up until that point, when riding a regular bike, I never had hand brakes, just the regular foot brakes.
We were all spread out, motoring along at different speeds and with seemingly clear sailing, I was ahead of the pack. The entryway into Diamond head is pretty cool. You enter a tunnel, and when you come out, about fifty feet along, you make a fairly sharp left turn, and on and up you go. Mind you, I had no knowledge of these details. The following is how I learned of them.
So I was zipping along at whatever the top speed is for a moped, maybe 30 or 40 mph — really getting the hang of this thing now– and I was approaching the tunnel. As I entered, I figured it best to throttle down a bit, as I wasn’t sure what was coming up. Here’s where my inexperience with handbrakes kinda hurt me. I applied the brake, but I neglected to let up on the gas. So I didn’t really slow down, and the light at the end of the tunnel was fast approaching. Ironically. As the tunnel spit me out at full speed, an incredibly worried me saw the road ahead taking a sharp left. Straight ahead though… nothing. After the road curved off, a steep drop off. Admittedly, I barely had time to panic, although I was fully prepared to panic like you wouldn’t believe.
Since I’m an idiot who can’t suss out handbrakes and I was still going at full speed, I had two options. One would be to try and make the turn but it was blind and I don’t think I could have remained upright. The other option –which I chose– was to go straight and maybe jump off the bike, going full Shatner, and fully prepared to lose the bike over the cliff.
The drop –which at that moment was better presented to me as being about 1,000 ft down, was spreading out in front of me as I moved from the road onto the dirt, now some 15 feet away from the edge. Turns out, I’m likely not the first idiot to find myself in this exact position. As soon as I hit the dirt section, I ran into deep ruts carved into the ground (undoubtedly precisely for this type of situation), which turned the moped into more of a bucking bronco, which shook my hands off the grips, me off the bike, and piled me in a heap on the ground. About five feet from the drop.
But being 17, and being in Hawaii, and no one actually seeing me do this, it was a lot easier to say “woo! Close one.” Then hop back on the bike and continue to Diamond head. Finally figured out the brakes, too.
It is funny how a moment like that alters your perceptions a bit. By comparison, the island hopper plane I took the day before had a 121 year old pilot and the plane was leaking oil badly throughout our many take offs and landings. Under normal circumstances, that might have bothered me but after the moped incident, eh, not so much.
I am kind of curious as to whether they ever did put a guard rail up at that turn.
First, the fun. Of the some four or five days we were in Hawaii, while daytime consisted of outdoor excursions and sight seeing, the nights were celebrations. The biggest event was a giant luau for several tour groups, including the class. It had all the touristy stuff, with the dancers, flame sticks, singers — was Don Ho there? (Look him up, kids) No, I don’t think so but I imagine *someone* had to sing “Tiny Bubbles”. (Again)
We were all having a great time, some of us aided by the Blue Hawaiian. A curious drink — not overpowering but a cocktail that will sneak up on you. It was at this point that it was announced that they were forming the Kissing Line. In essence, all the guys would line up and all the women would line up, and the two lines would move in opposite directions, kissing each other as they go. Kind of mind boggling to even conceive of such an event by today’s standards but keep in mind, this was 1980 after all. Maybe the last vestige of the swinging ’60’s and ’70’s, free love, you name it. Well, I was certainly enjoying it. Lining up with the *requirement* to kiss a couple hundred girls, most of them your age? Good lord. I am glad I was born when I was.
And, usually not knowing where to draw the line, there were technically more guys than girls, so after the last girl passed by, I simply went to the opposite end of the guys line and caught the whole female contingent again. A couple girls from my class were wise to my antics but rules were the rules. Good times. Blue Hawaiians.
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