The best job I ever had was when my wife and I ran a booth at a flea market.
Ella and I were and still are yard sale rats. We pile the kids in the car on Saturday mornings and hit the road, sometimes with a MapQuested route and sometimes without. While we don't get as early of a start as we used to, we rarely come home empty-handed. Hell, the kids and I would only have underwear and socks if it weren't for yard sales (Ella's a professional so she claims she has to buy her clothes at a store, but every once in awhile even she will buy a dress or coat at a yard sale).
Back in the day, Ella and I hit the yard sales for us. We didn't need to worry about lead paint on furniture, drawers that wouldn't close, things that kids could swallow, and stuff like that. Our apartments and first home were Yard Sale Chic.
We were hardcore: we also hit auctions and flea markets. During one trip to a particular flea market, we started talking to the manager and he started telling us how much a room cost. One thing led to another and we left that day as renters of a room in a flea market.
It was a 16 X 10 space in an old grocery store but to us, it was a mansion. We put area rugs in it. We gave it a name and hung little signs all over the room. We made business cards because we could.
And we furnished it with some of the coolest stuff we could find.
The manager was a hippie who took a liking to us. While all the other dealers had to be present in order to sell things, he would open our booth on days we weren't there (the place was open Wednesday-Sunday) and sell our stuff for us. Even though we didn't need to be there, we were still there every Saturday and Sunday, hanging out and talking to the customers. It was probably the only time in my life that I was able to talk comfortably to strangers. It might have been the way we furnished it or maybe it was the college town clientele, but I just felt at home there. Most of the customers were professors, college students, or artsy-fartsy types. We always cut the college kids a deal because we knew what it was like to be young and not have much money.
After hitting the yard sales on Saturday mornings, we rushed down to the flea market to unload our new wares. Because both of us have an eye for this kind of stuff, after a month or so we had flea market groupies that were waiting for us when we got there, eager to be the first to see our new finds.
I weep when I think about how cheaply we marked our old gas signs, strange crucifixes, and other knickknacks and oddities due to the limited customer base in those pre-eBay days (or at least in the days before eBay became EBAY).
And then we found our niche.
One day we bought a particle-board bookcase at a yard sale. It was a piece of crap, so I told Ella we should paint it all funky and see what happens. We took it down to the flea market the next weekend and put it on display, unpriced. Within thirty minutes, we had someone offer us $50 for it.
Ca-ching!
We soon sought out cheap bookcases, tables, chairs, and other furniture during our yard sale trips. We would pick up a video at Blockbuster and paint all night long. We had so much fun painting, watching movies, talking, and coming up with new ideas. We painted zebra stripes, lady bug patterns, abstract crap, whatever came to mind. Sometimes we added objects to our furniture. My favorite thing we ever created was a taxi cab bookcase. We found an old sign from the top of a taxi at a yard sale, mounted it on top of a bookcase, and painted the bookcase yellow with a little checkerboard pattern down the sides.
I wish we had held onto that thing.
One day, a dentist came into our store and bought out our entire inventory of painted furniture to furnish his office (I still have trouble believing he actually put our crap in his office, but that's what he told us). We even started taking requests. People would tell us what they wanted, pay us up front, and we called them when it was ready.
Life was fun. Life was great.
But before it could turn into a full-fledged Violent Femmes tune, Ric "To be The Man, you gotta beat the man" Flair bought the property from the hippie's father and turned it into a Gold's Gym.
Woooo this, asshole.
Song of the day: Flea Market by Bracket
How Professional Wrestling Destroyed My Dream Job
The Lost Summer
I've seen many reports of drive-offs at gas stations in the news lately. That never would've happened on my watch. If someone drove off without paying, it came out of your paycheck. Do you think I was going to let someone drive off with part of my paycheck?
I would scan the parking lot, searching for people who appeared suspicious. If I spotted someone spazzing out and acting all nervous, I would take the shotgun off the wall.
I only had to use it once. Late one night, I saw a guy get in his car without paying for the gas. I ran outside, pumped the shotgun, and fired it in the air. He immediately got out of the car and said, "Oops. I forgot to pay."
Ok. That was just a fantasy that would run through my head every night at work. Only there was no shotgun behind the counter; if I had wanted to stop a crook, I would've had to pull a Brad Hamilton and throw coffee in his face.
I worked at a quickie mart one summer during college. I worked second shift three days a week and third shift two days a week. I also took Calculus III that summer. Between the ever-changing sleep schedule and the math class, I'm sure I lost more than a few brain cells that summer.
My boss, a grizzled ex-Harley dude who had done time for murder over a drug deal gone awry, took a liking to me. He told me several times over that summer, "My son is a loser. I wish you were my son."
Having a convicted murderer wanting to adopt you really tells you a lot about your station in life.
But for a loner like myself, this was the ideal job. There were no other employees in the store while I worked! The second shift was actually enjoyable. I would go in at three and get off at eleven, which left plenty of time to go do something that night.
But the third shift?
"This job would be great if it wasn't for the fucking customers" - Clerks
While there were some enjoyable parts of working the third shift, like watching the drunks stumble in after a night out on the town, locking the doors for an hour and blasting the radio while I stocked the coolers and mopped the floors, and blocks of free time when I could be alone with the pornographic magazines behind the counter my thoughts, there was a certain breed of customer that came in during the third shift that you had to stay clear of.
Never make eye contact. Never ask a question. Never give more than a "Yes" or "No" answer.
Never befriend an insomniac. Because that son of a bitch would return night after night, wanting to start a conversation while you're trapped behind the counter. No exit. No escape.
I was too concerned with dodging insomniacs to worry about robbers and stuff like that (other than the drive-offs). My mother did enough worrying for the both of us.
But nothing ever happened. The closest I ever came to any kind of sketchy activity was a guy taking a crowbar to another guy's head beside Pump #4.
Sometimes I miss that place.
Song of the day: Eaten By The Monster Of Love by Sparks
Youthful Idiocy: The Middle School Music Store
Of all the money-making schemes of my youth, this was easily the most profitable and the most fun.
In the early 80s, video games were all the rage. Malls had huge arcades and games could be found inside convenience stores and restaurants. But for us, the record store in our tiny downtown was our personal arcade. It housed eight different video games.
My friends and I would ride our bikes downtown at least twice a week to play the games. Eventually, we became quite good at some of the games. I became a master at the cutesy games like Ms. Pac-Man, Donkey Kong, and Donkey Kong Jr. My best friend gravitated towards the space shoot-em-ups like Galaga and Zaxxon. And then there were the games we were both good at, like Centipede. We would've kicked major ass on Starcade.
The record store was making good money through their video games. There was often a wait to play your favorite game. And then the store found a way to make even more money: they decided to give away a cassette tape to the owner of the high score of each game every week.
Like I said, my friend and I were quite good. So it would be nothing for us to hold the high scores on six of the eight games on any given week. We were trading our quarters in for every single band we saw on MTV. We were ear-deep in music and loved it.
But eventually, we realized we could make money at this.
The high scorers were awarded their cassettes on Saturday mornings. So every Friday afternoon, my friend and I would ride our bikes to the record store, see the scores that were in contention, and try to beat them. We limited ourselves to a buck a game. Most of the time we could set the high score with just a quarter, but once we hit the $1.00 mark and had not set a high score, we moved onto the next game.
On Saturday mornings, we would ride back to the store and collect our winnings. On Monday morning, we would sell the tapes to our classmates for $4.00 each. It was cheap enough that our classmates were getting a hell of a deal, but it was rich enough that we were making decent money. I remember one week where we set the high score on six machines by just spending $2.50. We turned a $21.50 profit that week.
Our business eventually became backlogged. Kids would place their orders with us and due to the number of kids already on the waiting list, it would take three weeks for them to receive their Cyndi Lauper tape.
But like all good things, this eventually came to an end. We never got busted at school, but the record store banned us from the competition. We bitched, moaned, and complained, and told them it wasn't fair to ban us just because we won on a consistent basis. But we were thirteen-year-old kids. And thirteen-year-olds don't have a lot of say when it comes to how businesses run their promotions.
To this day, I believe I could've put myself through college if they would've allowed us to play through high school.
Bastards.
More money-making schemes from my youth:
The Great Playboy Heist
Fish In A Barrel
The Haunted Forest
The Fifth Grade Flea Market In A Bag
Song of the day: Jelly Roll by Blue Murder
I Love A Parade
In 1976, I was George Washington in the bicentennial parade. I wore a powdered wig, knickers, knee-high stockings, patent leather shoes, a cheesy vest, and a puffy shirt. I was a miserable little bastard on that float.
Good thing I was six or I would've probably gotten my ass kicked for wearing such an outfit.
***
I marched in several parades when I was in middle school. But when I reached eighth grade, I discovered that the chances of a marching band member getting laid before college were slim (and a trombonist's chances were even slimmer), so I quit marching band when I entered high school and started playing in garage bands. As a result, I have no "And one time at band camp" stories.
***
In high school, I was a hot commodity every parade season. I drove the only convertible at my high school (hard to believe, but true), so I was constantly hounded by Homecoming Queens to drive them around in parades.
Not a bad gig.
So to all the young lads out there reading this, get yourself a paper route and start saving up for a convertible. You'll thank your Uncle Chag for this piece of information.
***
On Saturday morning, I took Zed to his first parade. He had a blast! He loved the marching bands, the floats, and the candy projectiles that went whizzing by our heads every few moments.
But his favorite moment was when he spotted Zoey. She was marching with her fellow Daisy Scouts, beaming with pride. Zed waved to her and she threw him a piece of candy.
At least that's how it played out in my mind. Zoey was running a fever on Saturday morning so she didn't get to go to the parade. She spent most of the weekend moping and pouting. I felt so bad for her.
But not bad enough to keep Zed from enjoying his first parade.
Song of the day: Christmas Wrapping by The Waitresses
Terrible Lie(s): The Answer Key
I received 30 entries for this contest. One of those entries, from The Lovely Mrs. Davis, got all the statements right. One entry managed to get all the statements wrong. On average, people managed to get 3.2 statements correct.
Anyway, in you're interested, here's a little background on each of the statements. If not, feel free to skip down to the Song of the Day.
1. I once won a Kurt Cobain look-alike contest without any prep work whatsoever.
This statement was true. 63% of all entrants got this statement correct.
Right around the release of In Utero, a local bar was having a "Nirvana Night." There were four local punk bands on the bill, and each one played a Nirvana cover. Between the second and third bands' sets, the bar had a Kurt Cobain Look-Alike Contest, which basically consisted of the bar owner standing on stage, scanning the crowd, and pointing at me. To be fair, I did have a goatee and shoulder-length lime green hair at the time. But we didn't know about the contest ahead of time, so I wasn't intentionally trying to look like Cobain.
I won a gift certificate to a local record store (remember those?) and a used copy of Check Your Head (yeah, I never understood that either).
2. I was once contacted by Amnesty International, who thought I was a death row inmate.
This statement was true. 60% of all entrants got this statement correct.
A long, long time ago, when I was an angry young man, I published a monthly satirical 'zine online. I would run parodies of current events, etc. Think The Onion, only nowhere near as funny or well-written.
Back in 1998, there was a site, Our First Time, that was allegedly about two virgins planning on losing their virginity together, live on the web (it turned out to be a hoax). Well, I decided to parody this site. I copied the design, altered a few graphics, and launched My Last Time, a site about a death row inmate chronicling his last days on Earth and planning to broadcast his execution live on the web.
And a few days before his/my scheduled execution, I got an email from Amnesty International wanting to know if he/I needed any help filing any last-minute appeals. This is one of the reasons I shut down my site. Too many people were believing my stupid crap.
3. I was once an award-winning livestock judge.
This statement was true. 40% of all entrants got this statement correct.
Yeah, I was a major playa in 4-H. I got into livestock judging (sheep, cows, and pigs) and I was quite good at it. I won trophies and ribbons at various events. In fact, I think I could've won the World Livestock Olympics in Topeka, Kansas had it not been for that freak tractor accident.
Ok. I made that last sentence up. But I really did know my way around a sheep.
Wait. That didn't sound quite right.
4. I have written an eco-friendly children's book about a walrus that I'm currently shopping around to different publishers.
This statement was false. 33% of all entrants got this statement correct.
I don't think I have a book in me. Not even a children's book. Especially not one about a walrus. Besides, didn't you guys learn your lesson last April?
5. My very first job was cleaning out rat cages for a laboratory.
This statement was true. 77% of all entrants got this statement correct.
I was fifteen and wanted to start saving up for a car. I found this ultra-glamorous job. Truthfully, it wasn't as bad as it sounds.
Plus, if my kids ever complain to me on down the line about their "shitty" jobs, I'll be able to tell them what a real "shitty" job is like.
6. I once wrote a fake Canterbury Tale that became required reading at several high schools and colleges.
This statement was true. 10% of all entrants got this statement correct.
This kind of hurt my feelings. While 67% of you think I'm capable of writing a children's book, 90% of you feel there's no way I could write a fake Canterbury Tale that ended up being taught at high schools and colleges.
In college, I wrote a rhyming, 220-line Canterbury Tale. One month, while trying to think of an idea for my headline article for my 'zine, I came across my old Canterbury Tale. I published it, along with a backstory about how it was recently found in an old trunk and was set to be published.
And I'm really embarrassed to say how many teachers and professors bought it hook, line, and sinker.
They began assigning the Tale to be read in their classrooms. I was constantly receiving emails from students doing reports on it. Some people got the joke and invited me to speak at their colleges (which I turned down, due to my fear of public speaking). But far too many people thought it was the real deal.
I'm still a bit ashamed that I fooled so many people.
7. I own a first edition copy of The Catcher In The Rye.
This statement was false. 37% of all entrants got this statement correct.
I figured this lie would trip a lot of people up. I do own a well-thumbed hardback copy of Catcher, but it's not a first edition. I do, however, own first editions of several Vonnegut novels.
There you go! Hope you all enjoyed this contest as much as I did.
Song Of The Day
SciFi Dad is back with another selection. This time, he chooses a song that I actually had in my queue to publish later. Enjoy!A long time ago, grunge ruled the alt-rock scene. And then, a few bands from Manchester came about, the most commercially successful of which was Oasis. The Manchester sound is kind of like the soundtrack to my university years and The Stone Roses were my favourite Manchester band.
Song of the day: Love Spreads by Stone Roses
Boo This: The Game That Hath No Name
Last year around this time, our doorbell rang while we were eating dinner. I looked outside and found a Halloween bag on our front porch. And just like Weirdgirl's husband, I was skeptical.
I brought it inside and showed it to Ella. "What's that?" she asked. "It's a bag of candy," I answered. "Huh? It's not even Halloween yet," she replied.
We had been booed. The bag contained candy and instructions to do the same to two of our neighbors. Since I am a cynical bastard with a deep hatred of chain letters, the booing stopped at our house. What was going to happen anyway? Razorblades in my kids' apples?
But don't think I'm against all Halloween games. In fact, there is a game we played when I was a teenager that I may have to start in my neighborhood this year.
Rules For The Game That Hath No Name
The game is quite simple to play:- Agree on an object (garden gnome, plastic jack-o'-lantern, hot pink vibrator, etc.).
- Randomly pick someone to be the initial keeper of the object.
- The first person goes to another person's house, puts the object on the doorstep, rings the doorbell, and then runs like hell.
- The new person has to put it on someone else's front porch.
- When placing the object on the doorstep, if you are caught before leaving the property, you must leave with the object and place it on someone else's doorstep.
- Objects can only be left on the doorstep between 7:00 PM and 11:00 PM.
- Whoever (Whomever? Didn't I learn anything from The Office last week?) is left holding the object at 11:00 PM on Halloween night buys all participants a twelve-pack of beer (or a bottle of wine if you're one of those people).
And we had waaaaay too much fun doing it. We would scope out our victims and carefully plan our attack. But we weren't the only ones putting way too much effort into the game. There was one man who would sit in a rocking chair on his porch all night long just so he wouldn't get stuck with the witch.
During our senior year, we started getting cocky. We would actually phone our victims and warn them with a menacing, "The witch is on the way!" Yeah, we could've been out chasing girls but instead we were delivering witches to the front porches of forty-year-old men.
My priorities have always been pretty screwed up.
Tomorrow, I think I'll meet with the guys in the neighborhood and see if anyone wants to play the game. But first I'll need to think of a catchier name than The Game That Hath No Name. Any suggestions? Because opening the front door in the morning and yelling, "Honey! We've been The Game That Hath No Named" to your significant other is just too damn wordy.
But "Honey! We've been Pink Dildoed!" does has a nice ring to it, don't you think?
Song of the day: I Put A Spell On You by Screamin' Jay Hawkins
Repost: I Wonder How They Would Fare With Def Leppard
Since the Scripps National Spelling Bee will be televised live on May 31st from 10:00 AM to 1:00 PM EDT on ESPN and from 8:00 PM to 10:00 PM EDT on ABC, I figured it was a good time to repost this entry from last year. If you haven't read it, it talks about my love of spelling bees.
Confession time: I am a nerd. Not a self-proclaimed sexy geek. A nerd.
Today is a national holiday for nerds. Why, you ask? It's one of the greatest yearly events in Nerdville: The Scripps National Spelling Bee.
When I was in fourth grade, I came in second in my school's spelling bee. When I was in fifth grade, I won my school's spelling bee. I don't remember hearing about a spelling bee when I was in middle school though. Perhaps my school system just washed their hands of the whole affair.
Now before you start thinking differently, my parents did not feed me flashcards for breakfast; I've always been a fairly decent speller (grammar, on the other hand, remains a mystery to me). And around these parts, if you can successfully spell lunch, cat, or Monday, you have a pretty good chance of winning your school's spelling bee. But I lost in one of the early rounds of the county championship.
The word that knocked me out of the competition? Marriage. According to my ten-year-old brain, there was no "I" in marriage. I would say that a lot during my footloose single days.
Actually, I still tell that joke today. It's a wonder Ella ever married me. For that and oh-so-many more reasons.
But back to the REAL spellers. The Scripps National Spelling Bee has been televised on ESPN for as long as I can remember. This year, they're showing the early rounds on ESPN on Thursday from 10:00 AM to 1:00 PM EDT. The championship round will follow on ABC at 8:00 PM EDT.
That's right, bitches. Spelling's gone mainstream. Deal.
I looooooooove watching the spelling bee. Armed with equal parts empathy and morbid fascination, I watch these poor kids fumble their way through words I've never heard of. Look, it's hard enough being a normal twelve-to-fourteen-year-old in this day and age. Imagine being a kid whose only human contact for the past six months has been some deranged Alphabet Dictator constantly barking obscure French spelling rules. You'd develop severe tics as well.
Whether it be clutching the microphone as if to keep from falling into some imaginary pit beneath them, sweating profusely, swaying back and forth, uncontrollable blinking, gasping between letters, sniffing their fingers (I'm looking at you, E-U-O-N-Y-M! girl), or writing on their placards with their BIC® Index Fingers, these kids are glorious messes.
But you know who also has it rough? The pronouncer. The fortitude of the pronouncers simply amazes me. How has something like the following never happened?
Pronouncer: Dik-taht.
Contestant: Dik-tat.
Pronouncer: Dik-taht.
Contestant: Dik-tat.
Pronouncer: Dik-TAHT.
Contestant: Dik-taht. May I have the definition, please?
Pronouncer: Diktat: an authoritative decree or order.
Contestant: Can you use it in a sentence?
Pronouncer: The czar issued a diktat that many citizens deemed unfair.
Contestant: Are there any alternate pronunciations?
Pronouncer: No. Just dik-taht.
Contestant: Dik-tat.
Pronouncer: Dik-TAHT.
Contestant: Dik-taht. What's the language of origin?
Pronouncer: Latin. To dictate.
Contestant: Dik-tat.
Pronouncer: DIK-TAHT!
Contestant: Can you use it in a sentence?
Pronouncer: Yes! This moron can't say dik-TAHT! How's that sentence for you, DICK-HEAD?
Needless to say, I'll be Tivoing it just in case something like that occurs. Anyone else watching? Does anyone have any early lines on the kids? Any dark horses I should be aware of?
It's March Madness for nerds!
Song of the day: Starfish And Coffee by Prince
Youthful Idiocy: Christian Rock (Before There Was Such A Thing)
Part 5 of a 14,389,003-part series that serves as a reminder that every time one of my kids does something dumb, I've done something dumber.
I cannot be sure what you are about to read is entirely true since I was five when it happened. Since it's one of those stories my mom likes to drag out to embarrass me, it feels like I remember it.
We were in church on a snowy, pre-Christmas Sunday morning. Attendance was poor that day, but since we only lived a block away from church, we had no excuse not to be there.
At one point, the choir director stood at the pulpit and announced, "We're going to sing Joy To The World. Please turn to page 120 in your hymnals."
My mom said I jumped to my feet and started beaming. As soon as the organ started, I belted out, "JEREMIAH WAS A BULLFROG!!!"
Yup. I started singing Three Dog Night instead of the Christmas hymn. Does this mean I'm going to Hell eventually?
Addendum: My mother really should not have been surprised or embarrassed when this event took place. We lived in a sleepy little mill town and there wasn't much to do. So every Saturday night, they took me with them to the local VFW while they had a few beers. I passed the time by standing on the stage, singing into a rubber snake to the tunes coming out of the jukebox. Customers would regularly give me quarters and sodas (which I'm sure I thought was cool as hell). I was the VFW's house band. Kind of sad, no?
And before you pass judgment on my parents for taking me to a bar when I was a small child and allowing me to drink sodas all night, remember this: it was the 70s. People didn't know any better. It's a wonder they didn't let me smoke.
So folks, teach your children well. And don't expose them to Three Dog Night.
More Youthful Idiocy:
The Haunted Forest
Fish In A Barrel
The Fifth Grade Flea Market In A Bag
The Great Playboy Heist
Odd Job
To supplement my income while I was in college, I went to yard sales, estate sales, and tag sales every Saturday morning. I spent most of my high school years haunting thrift stores and music stores, so I knew what they were looking for and how much they were willing to pay for certain items.
Luckily, I had two major college towns within thirty miles from my home, so there was always some store willing to buy my finds. Here are some of my favorite finds:
- The Honky-Tonk
I found a little bar that was going out of business after forty-five years. The bar had an old jukebox and was selling all the records. They still had the old picture sleeves for most of the 45s (the picture sleeves are actually worth more than the records)! I ending up buying fifty 45s for $10.00. Sold them at various record stores and conventions for well over $300. - The Out-Of-Touch Record Store
One day, I went to an out-of-the-way record store and stumbled upon two sealed Appetite For Destruction LPs for $10 each. They were the original covers (the rape scene, which was banned soon after the album was released (the banned cover was put inside the CDs, LPs, and tapes and was replaced with the cross tattoo)). I ended up keeping one for myself and sold the other for $120. - Dead Men Wear No Clothes
I went to a tag sale of an old man who had recently died. The man had impeccable taste in clothing. I found a H-U-G-E stash of clothes from the 40s, 50s, and 60s. I spent a pretty penny on them (it was an estate sale (which is code for someone died and their heirs are trying to get every little penny for the crap they've had lying around their house collecting dust over the years)). I don't know how much money, if any, I made on this find as I sold the items to thrift stores only as I tired of wearing them. But damn, those clothes were cool.
Grandpa, Tell Me A Story
I've always loved music. When I was a preteen, I could be found holed up in my bedroom, listening to the nightly listener-requested Top 10 with my cassette player next to my radio's tiny speaker, ready to record the songs I loved (See kids, back then, I had a radio and a cassette player; they were two separate entities. Ipod? I wish). Some days, I even skipped school to record songs off the radio.
Yeah, some kids skipped school to drink, smoke, chase girls, and raise hell. I skipped school to listen to the radio. Loser.
I was also anal as hell about it. If the DJ would speak over the beginning or ending of the song, I would erase it and try again the next evening. And since most disc jockeys are in love with their own voice, I had to do this quite often. I returned the favor later on in life when I was a college DJ. I never spoke over a song in case someone was recording my show (oh, the vanity!).
In high school, I learned of bootlegs. This love affair lasted for ten years. I would travel one hundred miles to visit a tiny little record store with enough guts to sell vinyl boots. I would regularly attend record conventions with the hope of finding LPs of unreleased demos or live recordings. I was a junkie. Hell, I had demos of most of Use Your Illusion I & II before it was released to the public. I also had tons of live recordings of my favorite bands. Although quite a few were of inferior quality, every once in awhile I'd stumble across a live show that was recorded straight from the sound board. Pure bliss!
But you kids have it easy. If you hear a song you like, just take a quick trip to iTunes and it's yours (and you don't even have to worry about some idiot DJ doing a station ID at the beginning of it). Hundreds of live sets from your favorite bands can easily be found online. Demos and remixes are floating out in cyberspace, yours for the taking.
So there! That's something you kids can be thankful for this Thanksgiving. Now go play with your cousin so I can get back to watching the football game.
Youthful Idiocy: The Haunted Forest
Part 4 of a 14,389,003-part series that serves as a reminder that every time one of my kids does something dumb, I've done something dumber.
When I was young, we had a great set of woods in our neighborhood. A maze of trails. Abandoned treehouses and clubhouses built by children before us. A creek. Several bridges. Tire swings. A separate section of dirt trails perfect for bicycle jumping. A crazy man who lived in a shack, armed with a shotgun, a hatred of children, and lots of Styrofoam cups.
And the whole thing backed up to a prison camp. Suburbia rocks!
One year, the four of us decided to turn our beloved woods into a Haunted Forest for Halloween. Since there were only four of us, it was a rather daunting task. We worked every day after school and all day on the weekends for a solid month.
Here was the basic setup:
One of us was the trail guide while the other three of us would scare you through the subtle art of rubber masks and yelling. The trail guide led you by flashlight through the woods to our three major scary places. At Point A, you would touch eyeballs (peeled grapes; we were savvy veterans of the whole elementary school haunted house scene) and the three of us would jump out and scare you. At Point B, you would hear scary noises (the four of us moaning) played over a cassette player and the three of us would jump out and scare you. At Point C, the guide would pull a rope that would cause leaves to fall on your head (ooh! scary!) and the three of us would jump out and scare you. We even had secret trails that would allow the three of us to move quickly from Point A to Point B to Point C. We were quite clever.
Yeah, I know. It was actually very lame. But we were kids. And we were only charging two bucks.
On Halloween Eve, we practiced for several hours. Come Halloween night, we were ready. Except for one little thing.
You know that whole "if you build it, he will come" line of thought?
Total bullshit.
No one showed up. Not even our parents.
The one thing we forgot? Advertising.
We had not told anyone we were doing this.
We had not erected any signs to let people know our Haunted Forest existed.
We were idiots.
We sat in the woods all Halloween evening, freezing our asses off like sad little Linuses awaiting The Great Pumpkin.
Only Lucy never came to put us to bed.
Related:
Youthful Idiocy: Fish In A Barrel
Youthful Idiocy: The Fifth Grade Flea Market In A Bag
Youthful Idiocy: The Great Playboy Heist
Youthful Idiocy: Fish In A Barrel
Part 3 of a 14,389,003-part series that serves as a reminder that every time one of my kids does something dumb, I've done something dumber.
When I was a kid, there was a creek that ran through our neighborhood. It wasn't much of a creek, only about ten feet wide at its broadest point. But if it merely sprinkled, the thing flooded like crazy. During these floods, we would watch from our windows as a single Styrofoam cup would float down the creek every five minutes. The cups were rumored to be the work of the crazy man that lived in the shack deep in the woods, but that was never confirmed. But every flood, a cup would float down the creek every five minutes. Creepy.
The creek was also home to Injury Rock. Injury Rock was a huge ramp-like rock that jutted out over the creek. When we were bored, we would take turns attempting to jump the creek on our bikes off Injury Rock. I'm sure you can figure out how it got its name.
The creek was also home to crawdads, tadpoles, frogs, snakes, turtles, and lots of other things that little boys hold near and dear to their hearts.
And fish. Lots and lots of tiny fish.
Most of the fish were smaller than our ten-year-old hands. But that didn't stop us from catching them. Armed with bread and tiny hooks, we would cast our line near the rocks at the bottom of the creek. If you waited long enough, a fish would swim out from underneath a rock. Since these fish had very small mouths, you had to act fast. You had to hook them just as they touched the bait or you would never catch a fish. It was hard work, but we always managed to catch plenty of fish.
One day, after fishing for several hours with someone who couldn't quite get the hang of it, I had a great idea: catch a lot of fish, put them in a big barrel, and charge other kids to fish in the barrel. I had been to a stocked pond before and knew there was Big Money to be had in such a venture.
So the four of us headed down to the creek one day and spent the entire afternoon fishing. When we finished, we carried our buckets of fish to Chuckie's house and filled a large plastic garbage can with water from the garden hose. We dumped all our fish in the garbage can and went home for the evening.
We didn't realize what happens when you put fish in tap water.
The next morning, we woke up and found all of the fish floating at the top of the garbage can.
Damn it! Another foolproof plan undone by fools!
So we lugged the garbage can to the woods and dumped the fish. We did learn another lesson from this experience: Forty tiny fish, after stewing in the hot summer sun for several days, can smell like you have a dead whale in your backyard.
Related:
Youthful Idiocy: The Fifth Grade Flea Market In A Bag
Youthful Idiocy: The Great Playboy Heist
Youthful Idiocy: The Fifth Grade Flea Market In A Bag
Part 2 of a 14,389,003-part series that serves as a reminder that every time one of my kids does something dumb, I've done something dumber.
When I was young, there was a Quickie Mart about a mile away from where we lived. But it wasn't just a Quickie Mart. It was The Promised Land. Candy, gum, sodas, snacks, pinball machines (and later, video games), and wrestling magazines were all available.
If you had the money.
And most of the time, my friends and I didn't.
So we were constantly dreaming and scheming, trying to figure out ways to make money. And like all ten-year-old entrepreneurs, things never went as planned.
One day at recess, I pulled from my pocket a little rubber ball that was painted like the Earth and started bouncing it on the basketball court. A crowd of boys gathered around me.
"Wow!" What's that?" Boy1 asked.
"My Earth ball."
"I'll give you a quarter for it," Boy2 said. He had my attention. I immediately stopped bouncing the ball.
"I'll give you this rubber spider and a marble for it," Boy3 offered.
"I'll give you a quarter for the spider," Boy4 said to Boy3.
"And I'll give you a dime for the marble," Boy5 said to Boy3.
I quickly exchanged the Earth ball for the rubber spider and the marble. I then turned around and sold the spider and the marble to the two interested buyers for thirty-five cents.
I was dizzy with delight from the transaction. I had just sold a ten-cent rubber ball for thirty-five cents. Suck it, Donald Trump.
Unable to contain my money lust, I ran over to Chuckie, my partner in crime. "Did you just see what happened?" I asked him. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
The next day, we hit the basketball court armed and ready to deal. My backpack was filled with gum, candy, yo-yos, and other little trinkets we didn't want anymore. We would sell items to the highest bidder. We would trade for other items (but only if we were getting the better end of the deal). After a few days, the kids were actually waiting for us on the playground, eager to see what treasures we had for sale each day.
We had a steady stream of buyers and suppliers. We were pulling in ten to fifteen large a week (hey, ten to fifteen bucks are large when you're ten). Life was great.
Until...
There's always an until. If this were a movie, this would be the point where one of us got hooked on drugs or incurred huge gambling debts or some girl came between us and destroyed the operation.
But we were ten-year-old whitebread wusses. Drugs and gambling hadn't entered the picture yet. And despite the fact that both of us had "girlfriends" (in name only), neither of us knew what do with one.
No. We were undone by a snitch.
I prided myself on selling quality merchandise. If something was damaged, I would not sell it or trade for it. One day, some kid (we'll call him Snitchy McSnitchalot) bought one of those paddles with a ball on a string attached to it. It was perfectly fine when we sold it to him but the string broke after he played with it for a few minutes. He demanded a refund. I explained to him that the item was in working order when we sold it to him, so no dice.
So what did he do? That's right. Snitchy told the teacher about our operation.
And after a very heated parent-teacher conference, the Fifth Grade Flea Market In A Bag was no more.
Related:
Youthful Idiocy: The Great Playboy Heist
Youthful Idiocy: The Great Playboy Heist
Part 1 of a 14,389,003-part series that serves as a reminder that every time one of my kids does something dumb, I've done something dumber.
Every suburban neighborhood has its own set of local urban legends, be it the old woman up the street with a glass eye, the dog that bit off a mailman's leg, or the crazy man that shoots at you if you get too close to his shack deep in the woods.
Or the former teenager's clubhouse that is full of Playboy magazines.
When I was growing up, I was best friends with three other guys in my neighborhood. The four of us were whitebread wusses, but we were also money hungry. We were constantly concocting cockamamie schemes that might put a few quarters in our pockets. While most almost-teenagers would've converted those quarters into packs of cigarettes, we were more interested in buying wrestling magazines and playing a few video games at the Quickie Mart in town.
See? We were whitebread wusses.
One day we were riding our bikes when another boy in our neighborhood came running up to us. "Guys!" he yelled. "Look what I found!" And then he proudly held a Playboy magazine over his head. Of course, we all crowded around him like he was holding... a copy of Playboy over his head.
"Where did you get that?" one of us asked.
"In Fred's clubhouse," he replied.
"Won't he get mad?"
"He probably hasn't been out there in years. There's so many of them he won't miss one!"
"Can we have it?"
"No! Go get your own!"
And so the wheels were set in motion. Not only did the four of us want our own copy of Playboy magazine, we decided we would sell the remaining copies to nudity-deprived boys in our neighborhood. So we decided to all lay out of school one day and steal the magazines.
We met at 10:00 AM on that fateful day. One of us was even dressed in black from head-to-toe (it was probably me; even at such a tender age, I was still fairly neurotic). Chuckie, the chubbiest one of the gang, would be the lookout while the three of us entered the clubhouse and liberated the long-forgotten magazines. When we entered the clubhouse and saw the magazines, there really should've been a glowing light and the sound of angels playing overhead. It was that magical.
The three of us quickly gathered as many magazines as possible and hurried to the woods in my backyard to examine our booty (hahaha): thirty-one copies of Playboy and three copies of Hustler magazine (which made the Playboys look like issues of Highlights). The magazines weren't in the best of shape; they had been left in the elements for years. But we could see all we needed to see as we carefully peeled back the sticky rain-damaged pages (at least I pray to God they were rain-damaged pages).
I think it was Chuckie who said what was on all of our minds. "Guys? I think we should keep all of these for ourselves."
Or at least I thought we were all on the same wavelength. "No," John replied. "We shouldn't be looking at these. They're naughty. We should burn them." We talked John out of burning them and decided to hide them in the woods until Saturday. We decided to sell a few of them and keep the rest for ourselves.
When we met on Saturday morning, John didn't show up. Finally, we gave up on him and decided to go to the woods to get the magazines. When we got to the spot where we had hidden the magazines, all we found were their sad, pitiful, and charred remains.
Asshole.
Stuff Only I Care About XIII
Weekly Random Thoughts On The Yankees
The Yankees went 6-1 this week and now find themselves leading Boston by a half game in the AL East.Fun fact: In thirteen games this year, Randy Johnson has given up eighteen first-inning runs, for a sparkling ERA of 12.46. From the second inning on in those eighteen games, he has an ERA of 3.72. Maybe he needs to warm up longer?
Mariano Rivera injured his back while putting on his cleats before Thursday night's game. Couple this with the injuries to Sheffield and Matsui and the stomach bug that hit Jason Giambi and A-Rod this weekend, and I'm really beginning to believe that some Red Sox fan somewhere has voodoo dolls of all the key Yankees.
Chien-Ming Wang earned the save on Saturday night. That's how bad off the Yankees are right now. Seriously, they have no business in first place.
The Yankees start a four-game series at home with Boston on Monday night. Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday's games are on ESPN.
Father's Day Gift Guide
One of my favorite horror movies is finally making its way to DVD on June 13. Dellamorte Dellamore (known as Cemetery Man in the United States) is a 1996 Italian zombie flick that stars Rupert Everett (yes, that Rupert Everett) as a cemetery guard who must keep the dead inside the cemetery's gates when they rise from their graves during the night. It's a cool gory dark comedy. Ella calls it "an artsy-fartsy horror porno." But her taste is suspect. She married me, after all.Sunday Morning Hangover
Here are some of the more interesting/entertaining posts I've come across this week:- Emily completes the transformation from Goth to Mom.
- Kristen enjoys a day at the zoo with her boys.
- Lucinda admits she's a technofrump.
- Mom-101 learns her ice cream main isn't just pushing popsicles.
- Patrick chronicles his douchebaggery through the ages.
- Sarcastic Journalist wants respect (this is a great post).
Stuff Only You Care About
Hey! Remember when I said I was going to start answering questions from you guys? I did a few a while back, but I kind of forgot about the whole thing until I received the following question in my Inbox:Why did you refer to James Van Der Beek as your archenemy? -- Allison
Ok. My answer will hopefully not only satisfy Allison's question but also those I received when I wrote about my failed screenwriting career in an earlier meme.
As I mentioned in my answer to the death threats question, I used to have an online magazine. One day, I received an email from a Hollywood producer that basically said he liked my stuff and wondered if I had ever tried writing a screenplay. As a cynical pessimist, I assumed the email was a fake, despite the fact that it had a movie studio email address. So I spent the weekend IMDBing him and digging up dirt on the guy. Look, I was as far away from Hollywood, both geographically and mentally, as one could get. Turned out he was real.
So I started writing my spec screenplay. Despite the fact that I had never written anything longer than a term paper, I banged out a 106-page screenplay (it was a political/media satire with a touch of romantic comedy for those of you who may care) in three months. The producer loved it.
Except...
I needed to make some changes before he could shop it around. The main problem, according to him, was that my story did not have a
So he shopped it around. After another month, he phoned me and said that Mr. Van Der Beek's people really loved the script. Dawson? I thought. Ugh.
Nothing against James Van Der Beek, but when I was writing the script, I had only one person in mind for the lead character: Jason Lee. I had loved him in Mallrats and had seen Chasing Amy four times in the theater while writing the script (DVDs were made for people like me), so I couldn't picture anyone else in the role.
But like I said before, I was starry-eyed.
"His people?" I asked. "What does that mean?"
"It means his agent read it and loved it. James is supposed to read it tonight."
So there I was, constantly checking my email and waiting impatiently by the phone for a call from the producer. Finally, after a week, I couldn't take it anymore so I called the producer.
"He passed on it."
The producer shopped it around for a few more months, but nothing ever came of it. Other than giving me something to write about tonight.
If only he had made my movie, both Mr. Van Der Beek and I might have careers in Hollywood today.
You asked.
If you have a question you'd like to see me answer, drop me a line or leave a comment. Make it funny, serious, whatever. I'll try to answer at least one every weekend.
I Wonder How They Would Fare With Def Leppard
Confession time: I am a nerd. Not a self-proclaimed sexy geek. A nerd.
Today is a national holiday for nerds. Why, you ask? It's one of the greatest yearly events in Nerdville: The Scripps National Spelling Bee.
When I was in fourth grade, I came in second in my school's spelling bee. When I was in fifth grade, I won my school's spelling bee. I don't remember hearing about a spelling bee when I was in middle school though. Perhaps my school system just washed their hands of the whole affair.
Now before you start thinking differently, my parents did not feed me flashcards for breakfast; I've always been a fairly decent speller (grammar, on the other hand, remains a mystery to me). And around these parts, if you can successfully spell lunch, cat, or Monday, you have a pretty good chance of winning your school's spelling bee. But I lost in one of the early rounds of the county championship.
The word that knocked me out of the competition? Marriage. According to my ten-year-old brain, there was no "I" in marriage. I would say that a lot during my footloose single days.
Actually, I still tell that joke today. It's a wonder Ella ever married me. For that and oh-so-many more reasons.
But back to the REAL spellers. The Scripps National Spelling Bee has been televised on ESPN for as long as I can remember. This year, they're showing the early rounds on ESPN on Thursday from noon to three. The championship round will follow on ABC at 8:00 PM.
That's right, bitches. Spelling's gone mainstream. Deal.
I looooooooove watching the spelling bee. Armed with equal parts empathy and morbid fascination, I watch these poor kids fumble their way through words I've never heard of. Look, it's hard enough being a normal twelve-to-fourteen-year-old in this day and age. Imagine being a kid whose only human contact for the past six months has been some deranged Alphabet Dictator constantly barking obscure French spelling rules. You'd develop severe tics as well.
Whether it be clutching the microphone as if to keep from falling into some imaginary pit beneath them, sweating profusely, swaying back and forth, uncontrollable blinking, gasping between letters, sniffing their fingers (I'm looking at you, E-U-O-N-Y-M! girl), or writing on their placards with their BIC® Index Fingers, these kids are glorious messes.
But you know who also has it rough? The pronouncer. The fortitude of the pronouncers simply amazes me. How has something like the following never happened?
Pronouncer: Dik-taht.
Contestant: Dik-tat.
Pronouncer: Dik-taht.
Contestant: Dik-tat.
Pronouncer: Dik-TAHT.
Contestant: Dik-taht. May I have the definition, please?
Pronouncer: Diktat: an authoritative decree or order.
Contestant: Can you use it in a sentence?
Pronouncer: The czar issued a diktat that many citizens deemed unfair.
Contestant: Are there any alternate pronunciations?
Pronouncer: No. Just dik-taht.
Contestant: Dik-tat.
Pronouncer: Dik-TAHT.
Contestant: Dik-taht. What's the language of origin?
Pronouncer: Latin. To dictate.
Contestant: Dik-tat.
Pronouncer: DIK-TAHT!
Contestant: Can you use it in a sentence?
Pronouncer: Yes! This moron can't say dik-TAHT! How's that sentence for you, DICK-HEAD?
Needless to say, I'll be Tivoing it just in case something like that occurs. Anyone else watching? Does anyone have any early lines on the kids? Any dark horses I should be aware of?
It's March Madness for nerds!
Hair, Apparent
We are trying to let Zoey's hair grow, but it's been difficult so far. Her hair is quite long in the back (about a fourth of the way down her back), but we are trying to let her bangs grow as well. Currently, they hang right over her eyes. Her hair is very fine and will not hold a barrette for longer than thirty minutes. That is, if she doesn't take them out before they fall out. She won't leave a headband in for longer than ten minutes, either.
***
Ever since I was little, I have had long hair. Long in the guy sense, that is. My mother tells me that even when I was two or three, I hated getting my hair cut. I would cry if I felt the barber had cut it too short. Which is why so many strangers would come up to my mother and say, "What a beautiful little girl you have!"
***
Of course, we could always let Zoey cut her own hair.
***
I was lucky. I've never had to work in the food services industry. Never been a waiter, busboy, dishwasher, or cook. During high school, I was lucky enough to have a mall job; I sold suits to people old enough to be my grandparents. That was the main drawback. The whole reason to have a mall job is so you can meet chicks when they're hanging out there on the weekends. But no self-respecting girl would dare venture into a store that held the possibility of bumping into her parents.
I also had to keep my hair short for the job. Another drawback. One summer, at the request of a stupid-waste-of-time girl I was seeing at the time, I put Sun-In in my hair (Don't laugh! I know I'm not the only guy who has used Sun-In. In fact, some women still use the product (or at least products like Sun-In).). Fast forward to the following October: for Halloween, I sprayed some purple temporary hair coloring on my head.
The next morning, I was showering before I went to work. When I got out of the tower, I looked in the mirror and noticed my hair was still purple. I went in the shower and washed my hair again. Still purple. I washed it six more times. Still. Purple.
I wondered if I was going to be fired.
I wasn't.
Over the next few months, my hair went from purple to burgundy to a lovely shade of pink before finally growing out. I had to put up with a lot of curious stares from my living dead customers and more than a few barbs from my homophobic boss.
***
Last night, Zoey, Zed, and I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things for dinner. We were standing at the deli. All the women were gushing over both kids, as people are wont to do when they come into close proximity of either of my children.
Women #1 (pointing to Zed): Is he a boy?
Me (while huffing): Yes.
Women #1: He's much too pretty to be a boy.
How in the hell are you supposed to respond to a statement like that? Tell them you'll schedule a sex-change operation tomorrow? People suck.
***
When I was in college, I really let my hair down. Ha! My hair was the longest it had ever been: it came down to my nipples (and no, I'm not some freak of nature with nipples on his neck or something; my nipples are where they should be). I also single-handedly kept the fine people behind Manic Panic in business. At one time or another, my hair was green, purple, pink, orange, red, jet-death black, and probably a few combinations of the aforementioned colors. I was such a rockstar poseur.
It's amazing I still have a full head of hair.
***
Despite weeks of protesting on my behalf, Ella cut Zed's bangs this morning while I was showering. Sneaky.
At least she didn't mess with his curls.
***
Currently, I'm rocking the AlternaMullet™. I shaved my head (not totally bald, but as close as I could get with clippers) in August after mowing the lawn on an extremely sweltering day. I haven't cut it since.
My hair is totally covering my eyes. Totally covering my ears. And totally covering my collar. Ella has been nagging me since Thanksgiving to get it cut.
Me: I like my hair long.
Ella: I don't.
Me: But it's the style.
Ella: Yeah, for fourteen-year-old boys. You're thirty-six. Look like it.
While watching the Oscars, we had the following exchange:
Me: Look! Tom Hanks has long hair! I told you long hair was popular!
Ella: And when did Tom Hanks become the epitome of cool?
Point taken. I'm going to have to get my hair cut, probably after mowing on an unusually warm day.
But at least I don't cry anymore.
