For all my mind knows, I could have lived in the Disney castle for the first 13 years of my life. I did not see much of that house, after my parents divorced. It remained permanently in the realm of my childhood memories. And I had a damn good childhood, save for a bit of loneliness here and there.
There, in that foggy 8mm view of my life, it must have taken twenty minutes to run from the front door to the end of the driveway. The hill behind our house was a behemoth, and it settled into a lake surely the size of Lake Michigan. And our house! I could start in the basement. It was sectioned into two parts: The toy room where my brother kept his trains and where I kept my little green army guys and where my imagination would grow to outrageous proportions. There was a pool table in there as well, which doubled as ping pong when the mood fit. And this was the room where I cried inconsolably when Kimba died.
My entire life in that house had Kimba by my side. He had the features of a German Shepherd and the colors of a Collie, so he was as big or bigger than me. Boy's best friend is no misnomer. When I was grounded or sent to my room, Kimba was my lone companion (haha if they really wanted to punish me, my parents would have separated us. I fooled them! (I think not). Most of these semi-punishments revolved around my frequent outbursts regarding things like coming inside for the night or getting ready for bed. I also had a very strict self-imposed diet as a child: tacos, pizza, hamburgers, chili. If I refused to eat the liver or the broccoli, I was often made to sit at the table for hours (was it really so?) until I finished my meal. I got around this mostly by feeding chunks of food to Kimba under the table when no one was looking. Though looking back now, I think my parents probably knew all the clever things I thought I was doing.
Kimba was protective but gentle. When excited, he would wag his tail so hard it would thump and thwack loudly against everything he walked past. He was also the neighborhood's alpha dog, similar to the head of a wolf pack. In those days, people didn't worry too much about letting their pets roam. If they were gone for more than a half day, there would be some worry. But we always found him. Kimba and the other dogs could often be seen trotting down the street together, heading off into a patch of woods, presumably to make puppies. How politically incorrect!!!!! Kimba was always in the lead, fending off challengers for his supremacy every few years. I remember, towards the end of his life, slow and ginger and afflicted with arthritis, I took him for a walk. The challenger was a young Labrador from across the street. He came out to meet us and growled at Kimba. He could not run if he wanted to, but I seriously doubt he had any such thoughts. I can see, Kimba trotting forward to meet this usurper, gaining the advantage of first strike. In one simple, deft maneuver, he sidestepped an errant paw and charged in, knocking the lab to the ground. Kimba stood there, proudly, paw on neck. It was over before it started.
The annoying neighbor had no better luck. This was the house that got tp'd every Halloween. His were the tires that got slashed by marauding teenagers. This was a guy who had been kicked out of grocery stores because of his brutishness. He hated Kimba. he hated the barking, he hated the sniffing around the garden, but mostly, I think he just hated life. He had many tactics and schemes in mind to try to tame our wild beast, but Kimba made the best of it. Brutus, I'll call him, once (maybe twice - he was that stupid) threw a shoe at him. A nice one! Kimba promptly picked it up and ran off. I was rolling on the ground laughing. I'm not sure our lovely neighbor ever got his shoe back.
Kimba, though, had a fondness for anything he could put in his mouth. Living on a lake, there were plenty of opportunities for stray beach balls and Frisbees to end up in our yard. Kimba was swimming, always swimming. Paddling, paddling farther and farther away from the shore. I still wonder where the hell he went. Sometimes he would just go all the way across the lake, get tired, and have to walk all the way back around. Oh, God, I love him dearly to this day.
He died on a day that I had basketball practice. When I walked in the door, there was no Kimba. Even in his old age, he would always be there, always. I found a note on the kitchen table. It read: "Donnie, we have taken Kimba on an errand."
Now, when you lose something you truly love for the first time, there is an immediate despair that sets in upon the sudden realization of goneness. He was irretrievable. he would no longer come to my call. I knew what had happened, and in that moment all I wanted was to feel his fur, to hear his bark, to listen casually to his tail going thump thump against the dishwasher. What had always been there all of a sudden wasn't, and that's not an easy thing to grasp. I think that's what children see when they experience loss. I often see a simple, sad, faraway, despondent look upon their faces. I think they are learning to adjust to the absence of presence, to the finality of it. That certainly was the case for me. I always turned inward. Later in life, instead of learning to hold closer those I love, I think I learned to love less. Avoidance, I guess. I don't think it necessarily gets an easier either. Maybe a little, but I'm not sure if that's because I've become used to it or because I cannot love like I did as a twelve year old. As you can see, I'm one for sortin' shit out. And today is a new Day and Age.
Thursday, February 4, 2016
I said I wouldn't talk about romance, but...
Ancient Babylonians believed that dreams were prophecies of what was to come. If a woman dreamed of a shipwreck and then had a miscarriage, the information would be recorded. When another pregnant woman would dream of a shipwreck, it was prophesized that she, too, would suffer a miscarriage. And so it would go. Dreams came to foretell wars, marriages, betrayals, and so forth.
For me, I can say that each time my heart has decided to give in, independently of my head, I might add, I have dreamt first of a kiss. Some of these women I've ended up dating, some were failed pursuits, a couple never left the realm of my fantasies. They are all, though, incredible memories in my life, droplets of lifesaving water in hot dry heat.
I can't say that I believe in the prophecy angle, however. I think, perhaps, it is simply indicative of the moment I give in and let go, if only a little. When I first started dating, I had no idea what I was doing , or what I felt, or why. But I soon learned the impact of a first kiss.
I kissed my first girlfriend the first time in somebody who's name I don't remember's bathroom. She was on the sink and the only light was from a strand of blue Christmas lights. It was late fall, I think. I don't know what music I was listening to that night. When I rummage through my music now, I could say it felt like 'Karma Police' by Radiohead. I know this can't be true, because that song was not released until 1997. Just shows you how powerful the mind really is, that it can alter memories, even erase or add them, depending on your general outlook towards life. Anyways, I had no clue what I was doing, yet I felt like I had done it before. She is still as good a friend as I have, but even she doesn't remember the moment. I remember feeling as if I had just done something no one had ever done before (there would be other times I've felt like a Love God, or a pioneer. This is what it does to you).
I kissed my second girlfriend for the first time in my car as I was dropping her off. She had just spent the evening with my friends and I in our apartment on the northwest side of Chicago, Korea Town they called it. She said she wanted to cuddle. So I did. There's nothing like the feel of someone's breath on your shoulder to put you in a kissing mood. So we sat there in my car for what seemed like ages, awkwardly, before the time came to bid a fair night and peaceful dreams. I leaned forward and........ kissed her on the cheek. Underwhelming, I know. She had the most disappointed look on her face I had ever seen. So back I went. Wow!!!! When my lips touched hers I felt her face tremble in my hands. I knew that she was holding her breath. I can't say that I've ever had a more powerful kiss. I ended up engaged to her for a time, which was a mistake. And it probably all came from that one kiss.
The point is, I've learned how prophetic a first kiss can be. You know exactly who's giving in and how much. There are only four options: 1) he gives in. 2) she gives in. 3) you both give in. 4) neither of you give in. I've never been particularly fond of kisses from option #4. There have been some, but it always feels like I may as well be kissing a tomato for all the magic I am getting out of it. It's much more fun to sense all the emotion behind it: the nervous stiffness of her body, the searching look in her eyes, the goosebumps on her skin. Or mine. Of course, I don't determine the course of my relationships by the quality of our first kiss, but it perhaps explains why I'm always having kissing dreams.
There are two consistent qualities to all of these dreams. 1: They always happen before anything real happens. 2: It's always me doing the giving in. I don't remember most of the dreams, usually just the fact that there was a kiss and what it felt like. Another amazing quality of the mind. It creates, in advance, a reality more precise than you ever consciously thought about. I often dreamt about flying as a kid. I would be soaring over the neighborhood, having a bird's eye view of everyone's roofs and the lake below. I guarantee you, I have never once studied anyone's roofs, nor have I flown in a helicopter above my neighborhood. But there everything was, as detailed as could be. And so it goes with my kissing dreams. One that I remember found the two of us kissing right from the very start. We were scientists in a modern looking building somewhere deep in the woods........ and far north. I suggested hanging out more often, and then without warning I awkwardly went in, just catching a glimpse of acceptance in her eye as I drew close. I never kissed her in real life.
Now I must tell you the overriding theme of my love life: if you are worthy of my love, you deserve better than me. I say this certainly not out of self-pity or lack of confidence. It's just that I am more aware of my shortcomings than anyone else. I always think that there must be someone out there that could offer more than me. With a shrug and a smile, I try to warn any potential loves that they are in for a bloody hell of a mess if they are thinking of giving in to me.
The other day, I was listening to music I haven't heard in many years, courtesy of a friend who lovingly found all the music I was thinking about. I realized that back then I was always going for the loud chicks, the punk rock girls who were bold and talked to me first. Not that there's anything wrong with punk rock chicks. I was an angry kid. I didn't want to talk to you if you looked "normal." Shallow, I know. But I think it was just because I didn't know how to say what was on my mind. And I certainly didn't know how to talk to the shy, quiet girls. I wish I knew then what I know now. Oddly, I was quiet and shy as well. So I knew they had something to say. I just didn't have the ability to get it out, or break down their walls. Kind of keeps one stuck in a pattern.
One fortunate consequence of having so few long-term relationships is that I have had the freedom to think about who I want, when I want, how I want. There is very little that has ever kept me from getting close to a girl. And in the end, I have been blessed to know many of the finest women in the world. I have always chosen the impossible, the improbable, the unlikely. The odds are always stacked against success. Even when I know my love will 99% end in failure, when I know that I couldn't or shouldn't give in, I do. I always seem to be at a diametrically opposed fork in the road. To the left is warm, dry road, clear and straight. To the right there is a blizzard, the roads are drifting with snow and full of black ice, the wind is batting my car side to side. I always choose the latter (sigh).
Now it would be unfair to put a number on the women I have loved. I can't say I've loved 2 or 4 or twenty women. Each is it's own story, almost like separate lifetimes. I loved them all for different reasons, for different lengths of time. The things I notice now are completely different from what I noticed before. Maybe I'll go into details on this at a later time.
For all the passion, though, I am always wondering what comes after that first kiss in the dream. I see my friends that I've grown up with having wives and children. I cannot even begin to comprehend what that means though I long for the knowledge.
I have learned, though, that I can now love freely without it being returned. I am good friends with nearly all of the women I ever really cared about. They don't think I'm an asshole (deranged, perhaps). But love , to be trite, really does come from within. For anyone who's wondering, if you care about a girl just because you think she'll eventually take her clothes off for you, you don't really care at all. I think I've come to a point where I don't really care what I get back. I give the same respect to everyone, whether it's a bum in a park or a CEO guest in my hotel. And the women I care about receive the same treatment no matter the circumstance. It's cool to be happy for someone you're attracted to even if you have no chance. It's enough, sometimes, to put a smile on her face. It's enough, sometimes, to see something in her that not everyone does. It's enough, sometimes, to be happy she found the one she wants, even if it's not you, even if you crave her touch. For me it's all just part of the journey. And with that I'll leave you with this for now:
For me, I can say that each time my heart has decided to give in, independently of my head, I might add, I have dreamt first of a kiss. Some of these women I've ended up dating, some were failed pursuits, a couple never left the realm of my fantasies. They are all, though, incredible memories in my life, droplets of lifesaving water in hot dry heat.
I can't say that I believe in the prophecy angle, however. I think, perhaps, it is simply indicative of the moment I give in and let go, if only a little. When I first started dating, I had no idea what I was doing , or what I felt, or why. But I soon learned the impact of a first kiss.
I kissed my first girlfriend the first time in somebody who's name I don't remember's bathroom. She was on the sink and the only light was from a strand of blue Christmas lights. It was late fall, I think. I don't know what music I was listening to that night. When I rummage through my music now, I could say it felt like 'Karma Police' by Radiohead. I know this can't be true, because that song was not released until 1997. Just shows you how powerful the mind really is, that it can alter memories, even erase or add them, depending on your general outlook towards life. Anyways, I had no clue what I was doing, yet I felt like I had done it before. She is still as good a friend as I have, but even she doesn't remember the moment. I remember feeling as if I had just done something no one had ever done before (there would be other times I've felt like a Love God, or a pioneer. This is what it does to you).
I kissed my second girlfriend for the first time in my car as I was dropping her off. She had just spent the evening with my friends and I in our apartment on the northwest side of Chicago, Korea Town they called it. She said she wanted to cuddle. So I did. There's nothing like the feel of someone's breath on your shoulder to put you in a kissing mood. So we sat there in my car for what seemed like ages, awkwardly, before the time came to bid a fair night and peaceful dreams. I leaned forward and........ kissed her on the cheek. Underwhelming, I know. She had the most disappointed look on her face I had ever seen. So back I went. Wow!!!! When my lips touched hers I felt her face tremble in my hands. I knew that she was holding her breath. I can't say that I've ever had a more powerful kiss. I ended up engaged to her for a time, which was a mistake. And it probably all came from that one kiss.
The point is, I've learned how prophetic a first kiss can be. You know exactly who's giving in and how much. There are only four options: 1) he gives in. 2) she gives in. 3) you both give in. 4) neither of you give in. I've never been particularly fond of kisses from option #4. There have been some, but it always feels like I may as well be kissing a tomato for all the magic I am getting out of it. It's much more fun to sense all the emotion behind it: the nervous stiffness of her body, the searching look in her eyes, the goosebumps on her skin. Or mine. Of course, I don't determine the course of my relationships by the quality of our first kiss, but it perhaps explains why I'm always having kissing dreams.
There are two consistent qualities to all of these dreams. 1: They always happen before anything real happens. 2: It's always me doing the giving in. I don't remember most of the dreams, usually just the fact that there was a kiss and what it felt like. Another amazing quality of the mind. It creates, in advance, a reality more precise than you ever consciously thought about. I often dreamt about flying as a kid. I would be soaring over the neighborhood, having a bird's eye view of everyone's roofs and the lake below. I guarantee you, I have never once studied anyone's roofs, nor have I flown in a helicopter above my neighborhood. But there everything was, as detailed as could be. And so it goes with my kissing dreams. One that I remember found the two of us kissing right from the very start. We were scientists in a modern looking building somewhere deep in the woods........ and far north. I suggested hanging out more often, and then without warning I awkwardly went in, just catching a glimpse of acceptance in her eye as I drew close. I never kissed her in real life.
Now I must tell you the overriding theme of my love life: if you are worthy of my love, you deserve better than me. I say this certainly not out of self-pity or lack of confidence. It's just that I am more aware of my shortcomings than anyone else. I always think that there must be someone out there that could offer more than me. With a shrug and a smile, I try to warn any potential loves that they are in for a bloody hell of a mess if they are thinking of giving in to me.
The other day, I was listening to music I haven't heard in many years, courtesy of a friend who lovingly found all the music I was thinking about. I realized that back then I was always going for the loud chicks, the punk rock girls who were bold and talked to me first. Not that there's anything wrong with punk rock chicks. I was an angry kid. I didn't want to talk to you if you looked "normal." Shallow, I know. But I think it was just because I didn't know how to say what was on my mind. And I certainly didn't know how to talk to the shy, quiet girls. I wish I knew then what I know now. Oddly, I was quiet and shy as well. So I knew they had something to say. I just didn't have the ability to get it out, or break down their walls. Kind of keeps one stuck in a pattern.
One fortunate consequence of having so few long-term relationships is that I have had the freedom to think about who I want, when I want, how I want. There is very little that has ever kept me from getting close to a girl. And in the end, I have been blessed to know many of the finest women in the world. I have always chosen the impossible, the improbable, the unlikely. The odds are always stacked against success. Even when I know my love will 99% end in failure, when I know that I couldn't or shouldn't give in, I do. I always seem to be at a diametrically opposed fork in the road. To the left is warm, dry road, clear and straight. To the right there is a blizzard, the roads are drifting with snow and full of black ice, the wind is batting my car side to side. I always choose the latter (sigh).
Now it would be unfair to put a number on the women I have loved. I can't say I've loved 2 or 4 or twenty women. Each is it's own story, almost like separate lifetimes. I loved them all for different reasons, for different lengths of time. The things I notice now are completely different from what I noticed before. Maybe I'll go into details on this at a later time.
For all the passion, though, I am always wondering what comes after that first kiss in the dream. I see my friends that I've grown up with having wives and children. I cannot even begin to comprehend what that means though I long for the knowledge.
I have learned, though, that I can now love freely without it being returned. I am good friends with nearly all of the women I ever really cared about. They don't think I'm an asshole (deranged, perhaps). But love , to be trite, really does come from within. For anyone who's wondering, if you care about a girl just because you think she'll eventually take her clothes off for you, you don't really care at all. I think I've come to a point where I don't really care what I get back. I give the same respect to everyone, whether it's a bum in a park or a CEO guest in my hotel. And the women I care about receive the same treatment no matter the circumstance. It's cool to be happy for someone you're attracted to even if you have no chance. It's enough, sometimes, to put a smile on her face. It's enough, sometimes, to see something in her that not everyone does. It's enough, sometimes, to be happy she found the one she wants, even if it's not you, even if you crave her touch. For me it's all just part of the journey. And with that I'll leave you with this for now:
Random Thoughts
The view from the front door of my hotel is notably unextraordinary. Beyond our parking lot, roughly the length of a flagpole, lies a man-made field of dirt and scrub. It had been tagged for development several years ago. Why, I don't know. I suppose because it had not been tagged for development before. So, while they did a wonderful job of bulldozing all life from this little plot of land, the powers-that-be apparently had no motivation (or cash) to continue the project. Over the last three years our little parking lot-in-waiting has actually reacquired a more natural feel. In the summertime, the weeds and scrub reach heights of seven or eight feet. The ground has become more broken, though it is still hard and dry, as excess water runs off into the city drainage ditch next door. There are a couple of large mounds of dirt where the bulldozer people decided to focus the remains of their land-levelling. They are beginning to look like small hills. I imagine that once ugly trees start growing, the nice developers will be back in time to level the land one again.
And since there are no trees to block it, we have a lovely view of a Sam's Club loading dock ahead and to the right. Nothing is quite as majestic as the sight of cop cars sitting in the lot, hidden in the shadows of the building, waiting for people to zoom by at 30 mph...
To the left is a burgeoning development of near-empty condos. This project actually did find completion. They are grey three story structures with above ground garages. I am sure you have one of these within 3-5 miles of your own home, no matter where you live. Spare and unimaginative, I would imagine the construction workers felt the same way.
Now, you must know that my affection for the twilight hours lies in a very special realm. They are the hours between light and dark, between awake and asleep, between life and death. They are the hours of laughter and cheer, where business makes way for pleasure, where the world slows down. Twilight, bold and brief, straining against the coming of the night, casts a light in which all appears more fair.
The air itself seems to come alive during twilight. Receding blue fades beyond the trees as shadows dance below. Streams of light, like laser beams, glow. Here and there, the dark battles the light, a transcendent, eternal struggle that shall exists until our world is no more. That would begin to describe the awe in me each night. There is no stillness in twilight, just constant change. And I can relate. I was born in April, at 10:04 PM, still fully in the night. But since then, my life has been lived fully in the twilight hours and all that it encompasses.
So, back to the condos. They really do look lovely at twilight. As the sun retreats into the Earth for yet another night of slumber, shadows slowly rise across the buildings, giving them a slightly purplish hue and turning them into pillar clocks heralding the darkness to come. The remaining beams of red, orange, and yellow, play an intricate dance upon the windows of these condos, swirling and twirling from one to the next, like shooting stars. The lush, but formless green of distant trees gives way to black and bold, a final farewell before they blend into the night.
Who knew someone just like Donald Trump could create something so poetic?
And since there are no trees to block it, we have a lovely view of a Sam's Club loading dock ahead and to the right. Nothing is quite as majestic as the sight of cop cars sitting in the lot, hidden in the shadows of the building, waiting for people to zoom by at 30 mph...
To the left is a burgeoning development of near-empty condos. This project actually did find completion. They are grey three story structures with above ground garages. I am sure you have one of these within 3-5 miles of your own home, no matter where you live. Spare and unimaginative, I would imagine the construction workers felt the same way.
Now, you must know that my affection for the twilight hours lies in a very special realm. They are the hours between light and dark, between awake and asleep, between life and death. They are the hours of laughter and cheer, where business makes way for pleasure, where the world slows down. Twilight, bold and brief, straining against the coming of the night, casts a light in which all appears more fair.
The air itself seems to come alive during twilight. Receding blue fades beyond the trees as shadows dance below. Streams of light, like laser beams, glow. Here and there, the dark battles the light, a transcendent, eternal struggle that shall exists until our world is no more. That would begin to describe the awe in me each night. There is no stillness in twilight, just constant change. And I can relate. I was born in April, at 10:04 PM, still fully in the night. But since then, my life has been lived fully in the twilight hours and all that it encompasses.
So, back to the condos. They really do look lovely at twilight. As the sun retreats into the Earth for yet another night of slumber, shadows slowly rise across the buildings, giving them a slightly purplish hue and turning them into pillar clocks heralding the darkness to come. The remaining beams of red, orange, and yellow, play an intricate dance upon the windows of these condos, swirling and twirling from one to the next, like shooting stars. The lush, but formless green of distant trees gives way to black and bold, a final farewell before they blend into the night.
Who knew someone just like Donald Trump could create something so poetic?
Tip of the Iceberg
17 things about me:
1. I believe in the four L's: Labor, Live, Laugh, and Love
2. I'm not complex, but my past is.
3. Always after it's too late, I think, "you're the girl I should have been chasing all along."
4. I bullshit with the best of them, which makes me hard to read.
5. I get my oversentimentality from my mother. Blame her!
6. I'm not sure who you are, but I've danced with you in my mind a thousand times.
7. I've no tolerance for anyone who gives up.
8. I've given up before.
9. I fall in love with honesty, sometimes to my detriment.
10. I say I don't want anyone to know me, but I'm lying.
11. I admit that I love snow.
12. All innocence is lost the first time I think about hooking my fingers through her belt loops and pulling her close.
13. I love my friends, but they don't always know it.
14. Even though it's happened a million times, I still get nervous when I see an open door. (Thank you Brandon Flowers)
15. A career to me is more a means of freedom than a means of wealth.
16. I've been told I've been looking for something/someone perfect for so long that it's actually a form of self-punishment.
17. I love life.
1. I believe in the four L's: Labor, Live, Laugh, and Love
2. I'm not complex, but my past is.
3. Always after it's too late, I think, "you're the girl I should have been chasing all along."
4. I bullshit with the best of them, which makes me hard to read.
5. I get my oversentimentality from my mother. Blame her!
6. I'm not sure who you are, but I've danced with you in my mind a thousand times.
7. I've no tolerance for anyone who gives up.
8. I've given up before.
9. I fall in love with honesty, sometimes to my detriment.
10. I say I don't want anyone to know me, but I'm lying.
11. I admit that I love snow.
12. All innocence is lost the first time I think about hooking my fingers through her belt loops and pulling her close.
13. I love my friends, but they don't always know it.
14. Even though it's happened a million times, I still get nervous when I see an open door. (Thank you Brandon Flowers)
15. A career to me is more a means of freedom than a means of wealth.
16. I've been told I've been looking for something/someone perfect for so long that it's actually a form of self-punishment.
17. I love life.
Teachers Have No Heart
I don't know what song would go with this story. It must be something I haven't heard, like "Teachers have more fun." I'll have to google that someday.
I must have been 11. I don't even know why I try to guess my age. I know that I was young, I liked to play badminton, I listened to the Beatles, and I had not yet reached middle school. There were also very, very strange things happening to my body.
Now, I already knew I liked girls. Even if you don't count 1st grade kiss tag, I was still only 9 when I first experienced the incredible, debilitating touch of a woman's lips. She was a beautiful (I could recognize this fact even at 9!), brown-skinned, ebony-haired Polynesian woman. I was getting off the plane in Hilo, Hawaii for summer vacation in 1981. My memory isn't so great, by the way. I happen to have a t-shirt with 'HAWAII 81' written in large white letters, as well as a scrapbook full of pictures with the dates on them. She put a lei around my neck and kissed me on the cheek! And she was wearing lipstick! And she was not my mother! In my fantasy-world, all six billion and whatever people in the world read my blog. So, if you are Polynesian, and were a greeter in Hilo in 1981, thank you a thousand times over!
So, back to the classroom. I'm guessing this would have put me in fifth grade. I am sure it was an uneventful day, probably in the spring or fall. My teacher was by no means tough. I think I actually kind of enjoyed that year. Plenty of time to daydream. Of course, somehow that led to catastrophe. That was the year my penis started growing at random moments - for no reason! It could have been a breeze from an open window, a sudden shifting in my seat, a girl in shorts walking by, the smell of pizza. I don't know. But there it was, several times a day. It took long minutes of focus and concentration, as well as absolute stillness to remedy this problem (if I only had such problems today)!
Unfortunately, one of these moments came up during reading hour. And my teacher, like few before her, always demanded her students stand up while reading. Right. Why not just tell me to take my pants of and give everybody a biology lesson. I kept my head down, hoping not to be called upon, and concentrated...go away! go away! go away! I didn't realize you were supposed to think about baseball or fishing or the boring old history teacher who picks his nose. Nope. And of course, she decides to choose ME to read!
I am convinced she knew exactly what was happening. How can you be an adult, teach a classroom full of puberty-stricken boys, and not know why little Donnie over there is avoiding eye contact? Do you go back to your teacher's lounge at the end of the day and swap stories? Yeah. Must be a fucking riot.
Smartly, I smoothly picked up my book as I stood, keeping it level with my pants. It was hard to see way down there. I don't know how my teacher could have avoided bursting out in laughter, or at least feeling sorry for me and telling me to sit down. But no, I had to stand there, reading, for what seemed like a century. I don't think anyone else noticed, but I've been out of the loop before...
I soon learned to tuck it under my underwear. This strategy worked well enough save for a little bulge slightly down and to the left. Maybe I learned something after all.
I must have been 11. I don't even know why I try to guess my age. I know that I was young, I liked to play badminton, I listened to the Beatles, and I had not yet reached middle school. There were also very, very strange things happening to my body.
Now, I already knew I liked girls. Even if you don't count 1st grade kiss tag, I was still only 9 when I first experienced the incredible, debilitating touch of a woman's lips. She was a beautiful (I could recognize this fact even at 9!), brown-skinned, ebony-haired Polynesian woman. I was getting off the plane in Hilo, Hawaii for summer vacation in 1981. My memory isn't so great, by the way. I happen to have a t-shirt with 'HAWAII 81' written in large white letters, as well as a scrapbook full of pictures with the dates on them. She put a lei around my neck and kissed me on the cheek! And she was wearing lipstick! And she was not my mother! In my fantasy-world, all six billion and whatever people in the world read my blog. So, if you are Polynesian, and were a greeter in Hilo in 1981, thank you a thousand times over!
So, back to the classroom. I'm guessing this would have put me in fifth grade. I am sure it was an uneventful day, probably in the spring or fall. My teacher was by no means tough. I think I actually kind of enjoyed that year. Plenty of time to daydream. Of course, somehow that led to catastrophe. That was the year my penis started growing at random moments - for no reason! It could have been a breeze from an open window, a sudden shifting in my seat, a girl in shorts walking by, the smell of pizza. I don't know. But there it was, several times a day. It took long minutes of focus and concentration, as well as absolute stillness to remedy this problem (if I only had such problems today)!
Unfortunately, one of these moments came up during reading hour. And my teacher, like few before her, always demanded her students stand up while reading. Right. Why not just tell me to take my pants of and give everybody a biology lesson. I kept my head down, hoping not to be called upon, and concentrated...go away! go away! go away! I didn't realize you were supposed to think about baseball or fishing or the boring old history teacher who picks his nose. Nope. And of course, she decides to choose ME to read!
I am convinced she knew exactly what was happening. How can you be an adult, teach a classroom full of puberty-stricken boys, and not know why little Donnie over there is avoiding eye contact? Do you go back to your teacher's lounge at the end of the day and swap stories? Yeah. Must be a fucking riot.
Smartly, I smoothly picked up my book as I stood, keeping it level with my pants. It was hard to see way down there. I don't know how my teacher could have avoided bursting out in laughter, or at least feeling sorry for me and telling me to sit down. But no, I had to stand there, reading, for what seemed like a century. I don't think anyone else noticed, but I've been out of the loop before...
I soon learned to tuck it under my underwear. This strategy worked well enough save for a little bulge slightly down and to the left. Maybe I learned something after all.
Me: The Musical. My World through Jasper T. Jowls
The Pizza Time Players from Showbiz Pizza are my earliest recollection of music, however vaguely. I'm sure I heard nursery songs long before that, but I didn't get hooked until I listened to Jasper Jowls, Pasqually, Mr. Munch, and Foxy Colleen singing bluegrass and Elvis (the details are fuzzy, but every time I think of them, I always seem to hear "Promised Land" or "Rocky Top" or "I Just Can't Help Believing"). I was about 4 years old. Showbiz went the way of the Atari 2600 and was replaced by Chuck E. Cheese.
Animatronics! Who wouldn't love Mr. Munch? That huge, purple haired vocalist in the Pizza Time Players! Makes me feel even more sorry for kids who had to grow up with Barney. OK, who would you like to have as your buddy? A purple shaggy dude named Mr. Munch who sings "Rocky Top"? or a purple, balding, flake named Barney who sings "I Love You?"
They always seemed to arrive on stage just as the pizza came to our table, which means I didn't have to worry about missing any pinball or Donkey Kong. I was mesmerized by them. They were larger than life, they were together, they were a true band! I would sit there frozen and awed. I didn't sing along, or dance, or nod at my friends. It was just me and the bears and pigs. This is most likely why I am not good at multi-tasking now. Once I'm captivated...
Actually, all of my childhood live-performance experiences seem to have involved watching a bunch of over-sized animals wearing clothes singing on a stage. Even when they were not. Opryland, Disney, Hawaii, Way Up North. Polynesian hula girls, Nutcrackers, the symphony. They were all fuzzy animals to me. Even now I imagine a tiny stage inside the Muzak machine, and the Pizza Time Players are there, light and all, playing all the music coming out of the speakers. And people say I'm out of touch.
Thus began the crazy saga of my life in music. My memories of my youth are frighteningly incomplete, but almost every one comes accompanied by a song. So my meandering forays into my past will be as well. Consider them semi-fictional.
You will likely read about my odd fixation with John Denver's "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" (considering my taste in music), my "Peanuts" era, my first deliverance into rock n' roll (perusing my brother's Cheap Trick and Billy Squire records), Pink Floyd with the flip-flop wearing kid, Led Zeppelin in the basement of my friend's house, Public Enemy and Tracy Chapman in the dorm, open jam blues and jazz after 21, Richie Hawtin and Speedy J and Kraftwerk with a bushy-sideburned Canadian, a love affair with Phantom of the Opera (and the girl who came with it), late night at the Courtyard with A.F.I., and a growing love for The Killers.
While reading is my soul-cleanser, music is my personal emotional tornado, whipping me up and tossing me from one time and place to another.
Animatronics! Who wouldn't love Mr. Munch? That huge, purple haired vocalist in the Pizza Time Players! Makes me feel even more sorry for kids who had to grow up with Barney. OK, who would you like to have as your buddy? A purple shaggy dude named Mr. Munch who sings "Rocky Top"? or a purple, balding, flake named Barney who sings "I Love You?"
They always seemed to arrive on stage just as the pizza came to our table, which means I didn't have to worry about missing any pinball or Donkey Kong. I was mesmerized by them. They were larger than life, they were together, they were a true band! I would sit there frozen and awed. I didn't sing along, or dance, or nod at my friends. It was just me and the bears and pigs. This is most likely why I am not good at multi-tasking now. Once I'm captivated...
Actually, all of my childhood live-performance experiences seem to have involved watching a bunch of over-sized animals wearing clothes singing on a stage. Even when they were not. Opryland, Disney, Hawaii, Way Up North. Polynesian hula girls, Nutcrackers, the symphony. They were all fuzzy animals to me. Even now I imagine a tiny stage inside the Muzak machine, and the Pizza Time Players are there, light and all, playing all the music coming out of the speakers. And people say I'm out of touch.
Thus began the crazy saga of my life in music. My memories of my youth are frighteningly incomplete, but almost every one comes accompanied by a song. So my meandering forays into my past will be as well. Consider them semi-fictional.
You will likely read about my odd fixation with John Denver's "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" (considering my taste in music), my "Peanuts" era, my first deliverance into rock n' roll (perusing my brother's Cheap Trick and Billy Squire records), Pink Floyd with the flip-flop wearing kid, Led Zeppelin in the basement of my friend's house, Public Enemy and Tracy Chapman in the dorm, open jam blues and jazz after 21, Richie Hawtin and Speedy J and Kraftwerk with a bushy-sideburned Canadian, a love affair with Phantom of the Opera (and the girl who came with it), late night at the Courtyard with A.F.I., and a growing love for The Killers.
While reading is my soul-cleanser, music is my personal emotional tornado, whipping me up and tossing me from one time and place to another.
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