My lovely bride and I are usually pretty busy. Between working two jobs, and her Girl Scout activities -- not to mention all of the around the house/kids stuff -- often we don't really get to sit in a quiet room and talk to each other until late at night.
So even though we're both exhausted, we will lie there on our pillows, hold hands, and keep each other up until the wee hours (which for us can be as late as 11:30!) just chatting. And being who we are, these talks often devolve into something silly. (What, us? "Silly"? Nooooo....)
Take the night we were talking about what the kids were up to in school, and told me something goofy one of the boys had said about dinosaurs. "Yep, he's a dork," she said. "Yeah," I replied, "He's a dork-o-saurus!"
After a few minutes, we had quite a bout of volley-quip underway... we would giggle like little kids, and then one of us would add another "dorkosaur" to the list, starting it all over again. Our parents probably would have come in and told us to knock it off... but we ARE the parents!
So that is life in our house. Our butts may occasionally drag the next morning because of it, and it may be silly, but this is one way these best friends stay best friends. The secret of the ages, my friends: choose a partner just as dorky as you are!
And my darling is a Tri-dork-atops!
--------------
(Comments posted included the following.)
كايتر ♣ kater: Oh yeah? Well you're a ptera-dork-tyl!!
Tad: Hmmph. Easy to say when you're an apatodorkus!
كايتر ♣ kater: Dimetro-dork!
Tad: Stegadorkus!
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Friday, August 11, 2006
Kerouac and Ginsberg Grow Up and Get Jobs
Originally posted Friday, August 11, 2006, while thinking about old friends and more adventurous days.
I was absorbed in cyberspace when I thought I heard a suspicious sound in the real world.
I turned around and glanced around the cluttered office, but nothing was moving. My ears listened for the telltale sounds of the kids playing in the far reaches of the house. The last thing I wanted right now was for someone to come asking to play Nintendo or watch one of the "America's Funniest" animal clips on YouTube.com. All seemed to be quiet enough, so I turned back to the screen.
What had my attention so fixed was a message from someone I hadn't expected to ever find on MySpace.
A fellow trumpet player (for 11 years!), and a fellow traveler through the late 80s/early 90s ordeal of growing up in White Middle Class America. He was the unintentional center. He was the guy who discovered things and shared them with the rest of us.
Wanderer, explorer, welcome bum. He had roamed the suburbs of Northwest Phoenix from age 12, getting into and out of the kinds of trouble only an over-tall kid armed only with a thick Stephen King novel or true-crime/serial killer book can get into.
He was the conduit through which I discovered a love of Tom Waits, the Pogues, Wilco, Nana Vasconcelos and the Bush Dancers, the Police, Elvis Costello, Ofra Haza, Les Negresses Vertes, Chris Isaak, and Buckwheat Zydeco.
He's the guy that edged me out of childhood reading material such as the Hardy Boys and into Salinger, King, Gaiman, and even a little divertissement called "Les Miserables."
He is the guy who was there for 1993 - about which, the less said the better - and yet still considered me a worthwhile person.
And I found him again on MySpace.
All of the sense memories, and not a few images from the past, were on my mind as I read his note. A catching-up kind of missive; just enough to say, "Howdy" and yet imply that there was a lot more to say. If you can't already tell, thinking about the old days takes me back to a place that most would think of as "the bottom of the barrel." And frankly, it is.
It is the Waffle House of memories, where the coffee is bitter, the spoons are never clean, and the air is full of grease, smoke, and Hank Williams songs coming from a fascist jukebox that won't play what you paid to pick.
It is all of the porn shops, bars, and flea markets we used to visit; not so much for the shopping, but for the sake of watching the people we found in such places.
We already know our safe, suburban world, and we had always been told which way was "up"... but these places and these people were the Other Option. This was the threat our parents and teachers had always held over us. More frightening was the fact that this WAS us. If we failed, or gave up, we had every reason to expect to end up there.
And now I was chatting with this old companion of the Waste Lands from my safe, warm house full of children via a slick, silly online forum.
It felt good.
Just knowing that for all of the close calls and odd adventures, we had made it to places that make us happy, or at least to some compromise between the forced potential and the rocky alternatives.
But there it was... the old rebellious urge to show him that I was still somewhat "hip"... that I still maintained my edginess. To downplay my "Mr. Mom" role, and revel in the dark side. Like the old days...
Of course, that was the moment that I felt a breath on my neck, and realized that there was someone behind me. Not just behind me, but literally climbing over the back of the chair!
With memories of horror movies and crazed homeless people -- or even some supernatural beastie from another dimension -- fresh on my mind, I was seized by cold, wet, unreasoning fear. Lacking breath to scream, I emitted a small "urk."
Then the little girl toppled over the top of my head and into my lap, giggling like a mad little imp (see, supernatural beastie from beyond!).
"I love you, Daddy!" she said, batting her eyes, which she knew would save her from any unpleasant reaction. As my heart rate returned to normal, I pieced together the "surprise" she had perpetrated; putting the kitchen stool in my blind spot, creeping up on me. Come to think of it, all of the good things in my life have been surprises.
So, sitting with her in chair, I dash off a maily to my old friend from my old life, and tuck away the hobo memories for another day.
"Daddy," she said, "Can we watch the 'Funny Dogs' video?"
Sure, honey. Why not?
I was absorbed in cyberspace when I thought I heard a suspicious sound in the real world.
I turned around and glanced around the cluttered office, but nothing was moving. My ears listened for the telltale sounds of the kids playing in the far reaches of the house. The last thing I wanted right now was for someone to come asking to play Nintendo or watch one of the "America's Funniest" animal clips on YouTube.com. All seemed to be quiet enough, so I turned back to the screen.
What had my attention so fixed was a message from someone I hadn't expected to ever find on MySpace.
A fellow trumpet player (for 11 years!), and a fellow traveler through the late 80s/early 90s ordeal of growing up in White Middle Class America. He was the unintentional center. He was the guy who discovered things and shared them with the rest of us.
Wanderer, explorer, welcome bum. He had roamed the suburbs of Northwest Phoenix from age 12, getting into and out of the kinds of trouble only an over-tall kid armed only with a thick Stephen King novel or true-crime/serial killer book can get into.
He was the conduit through which I discovered a love of Tom Waits, the Pogues, Wilco, Nana Vasconcelos and the Bush Dancers, the Police, Elvis Costello, Ofra Haza, Les Negresses Vertes, Chris Isaak, and Buckwheat Zydeco.
He's the guy that edged me out of childhood reading material such as the Hardy Boys and into Salinger, King, Gaiman, and even a little divertissement called "Les Miserables."
He is the guy who was there for 1993 - about which, the less said the better - and yet still considered me a worthwhile person.
And I found him again on MySpace.
All of the sense memories, and not a few images from the past, were on my mind as I read his note. A catching-up kind of missive; just enough to say, "Howdy" and yet imply that there was a lot more to say. If you can't already tell, thinking about the old days takes me back to a place that most would think of as "the bottom of the barrel." And frankly, it is.
It is the Waffle House of memories, where the coffee is bitter, the spoons are never clean, and the air is full of grease, smoke, and Hank Williams songs coming from a fascist jukebox that won't play what you paid to pick.
It is all of the porn shops, bars, and flea markets we used to visit; not so much for the shopping, but for the sake of watching the people we found in such places.
We already know our safe, suburban world, and we had always been told which way was "up"... but these places and these people were the Other Option. This was the threat our parents and teachers had always held over us. More frightening was the fact that this WAS us. If we failed, or gave up, we had every reason to expect to end up there.
And now I was chatting with this old companion of the Waste Lands from my safe, warm house full of children via a slick, silly online forum.
It felt good.
Just knowing that for all of the close calls and odd adventures, we had made it to places that make us happy, or at least to some compromise between the forced potential and the rocky alternatives.
But there it was... the old rebellious urge to show him that I was still somewhat "hip"... that I still maintained my edginess. To downplay my "Mr. Mom" role, and revel in the dark side. Like the old days...
Of course, that was the moment that I felt a breath on my neck, and realized that there was someone behind me. Not just behind me, but literally climbing over the back of the chair!
With memories of horror movies and crazed homeless people -- or even some supernatural beastie from another dimension -- fresh on my mind, I was seized by cold, wet, unreasoning fear. Lacking breath to scream, I emitted a small "urk."
Then the little girl toppled over the top of my head and into my lap, giggling like a mad little imp (see, supernatural beastie from beyond!).
"I love you, Daddy!" she said, batting her eyes, which she knew would save her from any unpleasant reaction. As my heart rate returned to normal, I pieced together the "surprise" she had perpetrated; putting the kitchen stool in my blind spot, creeping up on me. Come to think of it, all of the good things in my life have been surprises.
So, sitting with her in chair, I dash off a maily to my old friend from my old life, and tuck away the hobo memories for another day.
"Daddy," she said, "Can we watch the 'Funny Dogs' video?"
Sure, honey. Why not?
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
The Drunk
Anyone who spent any time in Monterey, California, in the mid-90's may remember the reputation of Bruce Archer. He was generally well-liked by everyone who knew him, but he did have one little personality quirk: in a squadron of 700+ college-age military trainees, he was a notorious drinker.
The vast majority of our student body liked to party, but he stood out. When other people would go to the bars in town, they would usually order a few beers. Sometime of the heavy hitters would do a pint. Bruce would order a pitcher. Then he would ask whoever he was with, "Do you want one, too?"
Generally speaking, he didn't let this habit affect his Air Force career. Okay, it would be more accurate to say he didn't let the Air Force interfere with his drinking career. You could guarantee that every night, from Friday to Sunday, he was going to be publicly intoxicated. Holidays and "Blood Days" - we were given a day off from class if we donated to the periodic blood drives - would allow him to extend his drinking time further into the week.
The collection of Drunken Archer stories grew over his vast tenure at DLI, especially when he was rolled back. Usually people were only rolled back for academic reasons; if they couldn't keep up, they would get transferred into a class that was two months or more behind theirs in the program. Bruce was rolled back because he had an un-descended testicle that the USAF had decided must be removed. This extended his stay at DLI by almost a year after recovery time, convalescent leave, and finding him an open seat in a new class in his language.
Meanwhile, his adventures continued. His favorite trick was to get himself obliterated, and then evacuate himself in some inappropriate place. When Bruce was drunk, he would piss and crap anywhere, as the spirit moved him. Pun intended. His squad-mates complained to him frequently about not urinating in the flight laundry room. James went so far as to ask him to use the washing machine, as it was easier to clean than the dryer. This led to a knock on James' door in the middle of the night: it was Bruce, asking for some laundry soap so he could "flush."
Perhaps his greatest moment came when he was staggering up the hill from the Enlisted Club one Saturday night, and felt his bowels beginning to move. He was on the tennis courts, about half-way up to the squadron from the E-Club; he couldn't go back there, since they had just closed. He didn't think he'd make it up the hill, and he didn't fancy squatting there in the open on a moonlit night. So he did what anyone in his position would have done; he snuck into one of the front yards of the officers' quarters that bordered the tennis courts.
As he did his business behind a bush under the picture window, he noticed that the car parked out front looked familiar, and he squinted at the name on the mailbox: he was shitting in the Air Force commander's yard! He proudly told a captivated audience this tale while sitting on my couch at a party sometime later, and then promptly fell into a deep sleep. We, of course, rolled him outside to keep him from taking a dump in our oven, or someplace even worse.
Then there was the incident with his roommate, Morgan Waldo. Morgan was a good guy, originally. I have to admit that I started him on his slide into sadistic cruelty by stealing his girlfriend, or so he believed. He was even more crushed when I married her, but it wasn't me that pushed him over the edge!
One weekend, just before the monthly Monday morning inspection, Waldo was livid. It was Sunday night, and Archer was still, typically, MIA, presumably at the Mucky Duck, or Characters. Waldo had to clean the whole room by himself. Okay, he didn't HAVE to, but he thought he'd fail the inspection if Bruce's junk was scattered all over the place.
About 3am, Archer was poured out of a cab, and the dorm guard on duty rousted Joe, the flight commander, and another poor sap - both were volunteer student leaders, I must point out - to drag Bruce down the hall to his room. As they did so, he woke up, and began flailing about. He only settled down after bouncing his head off the laundry room doorknob.
They pounded on his door, waking Waldo, who had only just gotten to bed after cleaning, sweeping, and re-waxing the floor of the room. They all dumped Archer on his bed (the bottom bunk, fortunately) and Waldo attempted to get back to sleep. Just as he drifted off, he heard something, and turned on the light.
He saw Archer standing in the middle of the room, spraying copious amounts of urine all over their shoes, which Waldo had lined up neatly along the wall under the window. Waldo launched out of the top bunk, pummelled Bruce on the back, and shoved him toward the door, shrieking "No, you stupid bastard! Get out of here to do that!"
So, Archer opened the door to the room and gamely obliged by whizzing out into the hallway. He finished as Waldo danced a jig of rage behind him, and then lay back down to sleep - on his desk.
The desks were side by side against the wall, so while Bruce was trying to rest his banged-up head on his desk, his feet were on Waldo's. The problem here was that Waldo had a shelf unit on his desk, which was loaded with books and language tapes, knick knacks and CDs, and other neatly tidied junk that tends to accumulate on such shelves. Bruce kicked the whole mess onto the floor.
Hearing the crash, Waldo rushed back into the room from the hallway, where he had been frantically mopping up piss with a pair of socks. He screamed again, heaved Bruce from the
desktop, and threw him onto his own bed, from which he did not budge for three and one half hours.
Those hours involved Waldo with reassembling his desk shelf, and re-shelving all of his stuff; cleaning urine out of his shoes; re-mopping, re-waxing, and re-buffing the floor of both his room, and the entire length of the hallway. (He would have only done the pissy places, but his screaming had awakened his squad leader, who assigned him the whole hallway as "punishment for causing a disturbance.")
At 0649, Waldo finally finished cleaning, and went to try to shower and get ready for the inspection. Alas, the cleaning detail had already finished cleaning them, and he was kept out. Thus, he stood inspection in an unkempt, unshaven, and smelly state, having been spattered with urine, sweat, and floor wax during the night.
As TSgt Beale was writing up Waldo's inspection paperwork, Archer came staggering out, clutching his head. It had swollen so badly that you could see straight into his ear while looking him in the eye.
"Airman Archer," said TSgt Beale, "Are you alright?"
"No, sir," replied Archer. "I think I hit my head last night." He looked every inch the victim of some horrible assault.
"You'd better get to sick call, right away!"
Waldo watched him leave through a gauntlet of sympathy for his wounds, and slowly ground his teeth at the injustice - sick call got Archer out of the inspection.
Two days later, Waldo volunteered to become a student leader. Asked why he wanted to be one of the infamous “student Nazis”, he said simply, "Revenge."
The vast majority of our student body liked to party, but he stood out. When other people would go to the bars in town, they would usually order a few beers. Sometime of the heavy hitters would do a pint. Bruce would order a pitcher. Then he would ask whoever he was with, "Do you want one, too?"
Generally speaking, he didn't let this habit affect his Air Force career. Okay, it would be more accurate to say he didn't let the Air Force interfere with his drinking career. You could guarantee that every night, from Friday to Sunday, he was going to be publicly intoxicated. Holidays and "Blood Days" - we were given a day off from class if we donated to the periodic blood drives - would allow him to extend his drinking time further into the week.
The collection of Drunken Archer stories grew over his vast tenure at DLI, especially when he was rolled back. Usually people were only rolled back for academic reasons; if they couldn't keep up, they would get transferred into a class that was two months or more behind theirs in the program. Bruce was rolled back because he had an un-descended testicle that the USAF had decided must be removed. This extended his stay at DLI by almost a year after recovery time, convalescent leave, and finding him an open seat in a new class in his language.
Meanwhile, his adventures continued. His favorite trick was to get himself obliterated, and then evacuate himself in some inappropriate place. When Bruce was drunk, he would piss and crap anywhere, as the spirit moved him. Pun intended. His squad-mates complained to him frequently about not urinating in the flight laundry room. James went so far as to ask him to use the washing machine, as it was easier to clean than the dryer. This led to a knock on James' door in the middle of the night: it was Bruce, asking for some laundry soap so he could "flush."
Perhaps his greatest moment came when he was staggering up the hill from the Enlisted Club one Saturday night, and felt his bowels beginning to move. He was on the tennis courts, about half-way up to the squadron from the E-Club; he couldn't go back there, since they had just closed. He didn't think he'd make it up the hill, and he didn't fancy squatting there in the open on a moonlit night. So he did what anyone in his position would have done; he snuck into one of the front yards of the officers' quarters that bordered the tennis courts.
As he did his business behind a bush under the picture window, he noticed that the car parked out front looked familiar, and he squinted at the name on the mailbox: he was shitting in the Air Force commander's yard! He proudly told a captivated audience this tale while sitting on my couch at a party sometime later, and then promptly fell into a deep sleep. We, of course, rolled him outside to keep him from taking a dump in our oven, or someplace even worse.
Then there was the incident with his roommate, Morgan Waldo. Morgan was a good guy, originally. I have to admit that I started him on his slide into sadistic cruelty by stealing his girlfriend, or so he believed. He was even more crushed when I married her, but it wasn't me that pushed him over the edge!
One weekend, just before the monthly Monday morning inspection, Waldo was livid. It was Sunday night, and Archer was still, typically, MIA, presumably at the Mucky Duck, or Characters. Waldo had to clean the whole room by himself. Okay, he didn't HAVE to, but he thought he'd fail the inspection if Bruce's junk was scattered all over the place.
About 3am, Archer was poured out of a cab, and the dorm guard on duty rousted Joe, the flight commander, and another poor sap - both were volunteer student leaders, I must point out - to drag Bruce down the hall to his room. As they did so, he woke up, and began flailing about. He only settled down after bouncing his head off the laundry room doorknob.
They pounded on his door, waking Waldo, who had only just gotten to bed after cleaning, sweeping, and re-waxing the floor of the room. They all dumped Archer on his bed (the bottom bunk, fortunately) and Waldo attempted to get back to sleep. Just as he drifted off, he heard something, and turned on the light.
He saw Archer standing in the middle of the room, spraying copious amounts of urine all over their shoes, which Waldo had lined up neatly along the wall under the window. Waldo launched out of the top bunk, pummelled Bruce on the back, and shoved him toward the door, shrieking "No, you stupid bastard! Get out of here to do that!"
So, Archer opened the door to the room and gamely obliged by whizzing out into the hallway. He finished as Waldo danced a jig of rage behind him, and then lay back down to sleep - on his desk.
The desks were side by side against the wall, so while Bruce was trying to rest his banged-up head on his desk, his feet were on Waldo's. The problem here was that Waldo had a shelf unit on his desk, which was loaded with books and language tapes, knick knacks and CDs, and other neatly tidied junk that tends to accumulate on such shelves. Bruce kicked the whole mess onto the floor.
Hearing the crash, Waldo rushed back into the room from the hallway, where he had been frantically mopping up piss with a pair of socks. He screamed again, heaved Bruce from the
desktop, and threw him onto his own bed, from which he did not budge for three and one half hours.
Those hours involved Waldo with reassembling his desk shelf, and re-shelving all of his stuff; cleaning urine out of his shoes; re-mopping, re-waxing, and re-buffing the floor of both his room, and the entire length of the hallway. (He would have only done the pissy places, but his screaming had awakened his squad leader, who assigned him the whole hallway as "punishment for causing a disturbance.")
At 0649, Waldo finally finished cleaning, and went to try to shower and get ready for the inspection. Alas, the cleaning detail had already finished cleaning them, and he was kept out. Thus, he stood inspection in an unkempt, unshaven, and smelly state, having been spattered with urine, sweat, and floor wax during the night.
As TSgt Beale was writing up Waldo's inspection paperwork, Archer came staggering out, clutching his head. It had swollen so badly that you could see straight into his ear while looking him in the eye.
"Airman Archer," said TSgt Beale, "Are you alright?"
"No, sir," replied Archer. "I think I hit my head last night." He looked every inch the victim of some horrible assault.
"You'd better get to sick call, right away!"
Waldo watched him leave through a gauntlet of sympathy for his wounds, and slowly ground his teeth at the injustice - sick call got Archer out of the inspection.
Two days later, Waldo volunteered to become a student leader. Asked why he wanted to be one of the infamous “student Nazis”, he said simply, "Revenge."
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