Intrepid Swashbunglers

Here's another edit and reprint of a blog post from my old blog, Ted's Café.  Thanks for reading!

It’s winter here at the Café. The fire’s crackling in the big, stone fireplace. The smell of French toast, coffee and sausages waft out of the kitchen and wrap you in a soothing fragrance that triggers old memories; memories of Grandma’s house and Christmas, childhood and lazy Saturdays. Cozy up with a nice mug of hot chocolate and take in this tale of youthful idiocy as we go back to Columbus, Ohio. Back to my early teens…

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Back in the day; that is, back in the 1980s, if you were really cool you played Dungeons and Dragons. All the hot chicks dug the guys with glasses and braces that carried Monster Manuals around with them at school; chattering excitedly with their friends about Wizards, Hobgoblins, modules and hit points. All the ladies would shove the buff jocks out of their way in a frantic effort to be the first girl to meet the Dungeon Master as he emerged from science class; carrying his books and calculator for him as he strutted down the hall, a nubile young coed under each arm.

Maybe my memory is cloudy; it may not have been like that.

Okay, I admit, I was a total nerd; long before it was cool. No girl would have even considered coming near me unless it was to use me as a human shield during a robbery. And even then she might have thought twice. Better to die alone than to be found lying anywhere near a pudgy, glasses wearing dork with a retainer.

I really liked the game though; Dungeons and Dragons. I could be anyone I wanted to be: masculine, tough, roguish; a hero who gets the treasure and busts some heads in the process. In the world of fantasy I could be everything I wasn’t in reality. Plus it was fun; we liked to be silly and have a good time laughing more than anything else, so a good portion of our playing time was simply spent making wise cracks. I played with a few different guys, but my friend Joel and I played together the most. Joel and I also liked spending time outdoors in the woods of Ohio, reading the Lord of the Rings and talking about hot topics of the 1980s like: being prepared in the event of nuclear attack. The Cold War and Duck and Cover had had an impact on us and we actually thought it was possible to wipe fallout off of our canned food and survive to rebuild civilization. I think I planned on playing D&D in my fallout shelter for 57 years until it was safe to go out. The chicks would want me then. When they saw that I had been smart enough to store food in a shelter they would all flock to me; overlooking the missing teeth and patchy hair due to radiation poisoning. Hey, if they can overlook those things for some old geezer’s money, why not for a place in my fallout shelter?

One winter, Joel and I got up our nerve and decided to explore a storm sewer near the bowling alley that would eventually become our main hangout; the Columbus Square Bowling Palace. I see the irony looking back- we were planning on venturing into the catacombs under the Palace. So like boys with big imaginations, we approached the situation as if it were a dungeon adventure, taking his bow and arrows, torches, backpacks and a large club; just in case. You never knew when you just might stumble upon an Orc. Or worse: the drunken bums and kidnappers our mothers had warned us about.

We donned our coats and packs, grabbed our weapons and headed out, ready for adventure. We trekked through the fresh snow toward the cement tunnel, excitement building as we contemplated what manifold treasures we might discover within. Gold? Silver? Empty, hobo-forsaken cans of potted meat product? Anything was possible. We stopped outside the tunnel to light our torches.

The large, cement storm tunnel always had water running out of it as it also connected to the main sewer system. In winter, the water was frozen; creating an inches thick glaze of ice on the bottom of the tunnel. Walking was hazardous, but we carefully managed. The tunnel went back some 100 yards into the darkness before turning. We could hear water rushing faintly, deep in the tunnel. With a breath we stepped in, our flickering torches casting an eerie light on the walls.

Before we continue, let me set one thing straight. We weren’t like some of the crazy people you may have heard about back in the 80s who actually believed that the world of Dungeons and Dragons was real and could be found if you stumbled down the right hole. We were just out for a good time and to explore a tunnel. Sure, we played it up big with weapons and packs and torches, but we knew fantasy from reality. I think. One thing all the buildup achieved was that we were more on edge than someone would normally be in this situation. Not that anyone normal would put themselves in this situation, but if there is a normal mentality associated with walking through a sewer with torches and clubs we were far removed from it. We were wired and tense, and as we crept along the ice and deeper into the darkness it only got worse. The sound of the rushing water got louder as the tunnel got darker. The entrance became a small round spot of light behind us. We were coming to the point of no return where the tunnel made the bend into the pitch darkness and no light from the entrance would reach us.

About this time our torches sputter and go out. We stood there in the darkness listening to the loud roar of water around the bend in the tunnel, trying to decide what to do, relight the torches or leave; when we heard it. Someone was throwing something at us.

It was one of those aforementioned bums; a societal cast-off who now lived in the tunnels under the city and preyed on innocent fans of Dungeons and Dragons foolish enough to enter his lair. It sounded like he was throwing chunks of ice at us. We could hear a crack as he broke off a chunk and the series of rapid clicks and cracks as the piece he threw at us ricocheted and skipped off the ice toward us. We called out to the offender letting him knew we weren’t scared.

“We’ve got weapons!” we challenged from around the bend, our blood running cold. In the silence that followed we knew he was playing with us; teasing our psyches in preparation for the final attack, when he would rip into us with a roar from out of the gloom. He threw another piece at us.

“Let’s get out of here,” was the sanest thing we had considered so far that day. And fortunately, we both agreed. We turned to head back to the light of the outside and the world fell out from under us as we plunged through the ice and up to our necks in freezing water!

Discussing it later, we realized that the ice chucking bum was actually the sound of the ice cracking under our own feet. Logic might have told us that there was no way some bum could survive in a dark tunnel filled with ice water, but logic had taken the day off back when we started this escapade. What happened was, we had gone deep enough into the tunnel to where the temperature was warmer than the frigid outside air and we stopped and had been standing on weak, cracking ice that gave out at just the moment we turned around. We fumbled in the water, trying to get a purchase on the ice and climb out. I had borrowed a pair of mittens from Joel that his dad had gotten for Christmas. They were really nice; leather, thick and insulated, and when they got drenched in the water it was like having stumps instead of hands. My stumps couldn’t grab onto anything so I whipped them off and lost them to the depths of the tunnel; sorry, Joel’s dad.

We managed to crawl onto the ice only to have it break off and send us back into the water. We then had to crawl over the broken section to try and reach solid ice ahead. Pulling ourselves out and onto solid ice, this also broke off and sank beneath our weight dunking us again into the bitterly cold water. My pudgy, Dungeon Master physique was quickly tiring. Up ahead; at the tunnel entrance, Joel’s dog, Duncan appeared, barking like crazy. Like any kid from my television generation, I knew rescue when I saw it.

“Duncan, go get help!” I yelled frantically; the result of too many episodes of Lassie. If Duncan could talk, I’m sure he would’ve yelled back, “Kid, I’m a dog. If you get out of here alive; you need to go get help!” Even in the frozen water with the threat of death, I’m pretty sure Joel laughed at me.

Joel finally managed to find purchase on stable ice and haul himself out. Mercifully, he helped me out too and we staggered down the tunnel and out into the icy cold, Ohio winter. Our pants froze stiff as we peg-legged it to his house, looking like a pair of denim and parka clad robots.

Later, we realized all we had to do was stand up and we could’ve gotten out a lot easier. Turns out, the water was only about a foot deep, but in our panic it seemed like we had fallen off a fishing trawler into the Bering Sea, fighting for our lives in the frozen depths.

It sure felt good to pry our frozen clothing off, get warm, eat some hot food and play a little D&D.

Grandma Z's Gift Of Gab - Don't Read This If You're Eating

My grandmother had a gift for gab. She just had a way of telling a story that kept you riveted; you would hear about the people she knew and the experiences she'd had and they seemed to come alive right in front of you. I need to edit, rephrase and polish my stories. People don't appreciate that at a dinner party so that consigns me to being a better writer than a storyteller.
Grandma had a story she would tell about being a waitress at the Twin Ponds Country Club. Some group of men, Shriners or a local company, were there for a banquet and after having drinks, began hitting on my grandmother. She wasn't even waiting on their table, but she was quite an attractive woman back in the day and lots of men used to approach her. She'd had enough of these clowns asking for her name every time she walked by and decided to make up a name to try to get them to leave her alone. The next trip past their table went something like this:
Drunk banquet guy: "C'mon sweetheart, what's your name?" he asked, a Lucky Strike dangling from his mouth.
Grandma: "Zelda Glutch, now leave me alone; I'm trying to work, you jerks."
Drunk banquet guys at table: Stunned silence.
They never bothered her again.
What makes this story even more interesting is the fact that this name stuck with her for the rest of her life; everybody called her Zelda from then on. Growing up, she was my Grandma Zelda. I don't remember how old I was when I found out her real name was Pauline. I heard my mom say something about my Grandma Pauline and responded with, "Grandma who? I didn't know I had a Grandma Pauline."
"That's your Grandma Zelda."
"Oh, huh. Why do we call her Zelda then?"
Grandma's stories were always interesting and funny, no matter how many times I had heard them. Many of them I absolutely enjoyed hearing again simply because of the life she injected into their telling. She often told the story of one of her friends, a man who had moved away from the upstate New York area when he was young and had returned many years later for a visit. As a child he used to go jump off one of the local bridges into the river beneath. Unknown to him, the water level had dropped considerably since the last time he had jumped at this particular spot. He excitedly drove out to the bridge for a fun trip down memory lane and flung himself off with abandon, just like old times. He landed in two feet of water and stood up covered with cuts, cursing and spitting pebbles out of his mouth. Rocks were also sticking out of the skin on his chest. At least he could stand up. I always cracked up at the way she told this story.
That’s country living for you. People doing stupid things and getting hurt; as long as it isn't too serious, always gets a laugh. I honestly don't know where the line gets drawn between laughter and concern, maybe a certain type of compound fracture or a specific volume of blood loss; I'm not sure. Things are different in the country; people seem tougher, yet also kinder; real salt of the earth types. We seem to lose touch with an important part of ourselves living in cities and suburbs. Namely, the part that laughs at other people getting injured. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate supermarkets and indoor plumbing, and I'm sure city kids do their fair share of laughing at their friends who get hurt; but there are so many other fun experiences that city and suburb kids don’t get to enjoy nowadays; it really is a shame.
Like turd fights. At least, I'm assuming city folk aren't participating in these. But just ask any country kid about getting in a turd fight, they’ve all done it. Out there cleaning the corral, feeding the animals, the temptation is just too great. One kid gives in to it and lobs a cow plop at his or her friend and chaos ensues. I’ve heard the horror stories about being careful to keep your mouth shut, but at its heart, this is just plain country fun at its best. Grandma had stories about turd fights.
Grandma Z also used to tell me about the time my great-grandfather went swimming in the Barge Canal, near Utica, New York. He and his friends used to go jump off a bridge into the canal. I guess jumping off bridges was the best, cheap thrill available at the time; it seems better than the cheap thrills kids seek out today. I wonder, did mothers harp on their sons about flinging themselves off the nearest train trestle while their kids argued, "C'mon mom, everybody's doin it!" like kids do today? Probably, people don't seem to have changed that much in 100 years.
Musings aside, this particular year there had been rain for several days and the canal was rising up and over its banks; perfect, deep water for jumping off the bridge. Stan; my great-grandfather, and his friends spent the day jumping, swimming and having a good time. One of Stan’s friends jumped in and shot back up to the surface, screaming and gagging, entrails wrapped all around him. A cloud of bloody, scummy looking water enveloped him in the area where he had gone in. Terrified, Stan and his friends watched from the bridge as he swam to shore; because would you jump into that gory mess to try and help him? Yeah, I didn't think so. He made it to shore, unwrapping lengths of intestine from around his body as he went. As he clawed his way up the swollen bank, they could see he was unhurt. Their eyes went back to the canal and from the remains of the carcass floating in the water they pieced together what had happened.
With the canal flooding over the banks the normally dry, solid ground that contained the river was soft and muddy. Somewhere upstream from where they were swimming some unfortunate cow had slipped into the canal and drowned. Its bloated body continued downstream just under the surface of the water and Stan’s buddy had unknowingly timed it exactly right to plunge straight through the corpse, tangling himself in the entrails in the process.
Of course this was hilarious to everyone but the poor guy who went through the cow. Heck, maybe it ended up being funny to him too, he was a country kid, after all. Grandma said they laughed about it for days.
They also made him walk home fifty yards behind them. He stunk.

***

Speaking of rewriting and editing, this is an edit and rewrite from another blog of mine. I hope you enjoyed it!

Trials of a Home Cook

I'm the long-suffering cook in our house. I don't really have a problem with the cooking part, I like cooking. And I'm not so much of a traditionalist that I think women should do all the cooking; I like to think that two people come together each having skills that they bring to the table, or to the stovetop, or to money management; whatever the case may be. I do think it's a shame that more girls don't cook nowadays; I think they're really missing out on something that can be fun, relaxing and rewarding in it's own way, but as someone who was raised to be able to fend for themselves I also think it's a shame that so many people lack this basic skill; men and women. I also detest the militant attitude so many girls seem to have toward cooking in this modern age, "I ain't cookin' for no man!" is the new mantra of the empowered woman. If relationships are built on loving and helping each other I think it's a small thing for both parties to be able to cook an egg.

But like I said, in our house I'm the cook, my wife does the cleaning. If she had a blog I'm sure she would write a post about cleaning up after a houseful of slobs, I'm here to share my experiences trying to cook for a houseful of picky people.

I'll start at the beginning. I married into having three teenagers. When we first got married my wife showed me how she made macaroni and cheese for her and the kids. I couldn't wait to see her skills in the kitchen and quickly wished I hadn't. After boiling and draining the macaroni, she tossed some chopped, raw onions into the pot along with the noodles and started adding handfuls of shredded cheddar cheese. Just as I was thinking that there had to be more to it than this, she announced it was done and her innocent kids lined up to get a bowlful.

"You don't make a sauce for it?" I asked cautiously.

"No, this is it," she smiled, handing me a bowl.

We weren't married long when one evening I had to go out; shortly after I left, the kids excitedly asked her to make the macaroni and cheese they loved so much, but I had already ruined it for them. After cooking for them for only a few weeks they were already learning the difference between real food and whatever their mom had been making for them for years. I refuse to discuss the broccoli and ketchup soup; except to say that it happened, but she happily made them the mac and cheese. They all took a bite and, chewing slowly, said that it wasn't as good as they remembered. I never even saw that pot of food so I guess it got tossed out before I came home.

The first time I cooked for my kids was an amazing experience for myself, and I imagine for them as well. I made something simple; chicken spaghetti, we like to call it. I simply cut up raw chicken breast and put it in spaghetti sauce instead of using ground beef; the chicken cooks in the sauce. My grandmother used to make sauce with chicken and I've always loved it. The kids were totally silent when I placed this food in front of them; they just sat there, staring down at it like they had never seen anything like it before. Maybe they hadn't, come to think of it. When they started eating they stayed quiet, but they were eating like they had been marooned on an island. They liked it and they let me know by devouring it and asking for more. To this day, our middle daughter asks for this for her birthday meal. And my wife hates it; not the request, but the actual food itself. Therein lies the beginning of said trials; these are some of the pickiest people I've ever cooked for in my life, people that willingly ate raw onion macaroni will turn up their nose to well prepared chicken spaghetti.

It actually started with onions, if I remember correctly. Our son, a founding member of the raw onion macaroni foundation; or ROMF, insisted he didn't like onions. I think back on this wondering how he ate that mac and cheese and then had the nerve to tell me he didn't like onions. But he was so insistent that I started making small portions of our meals onion free just for his sake. I subscribe more to the school of thought that says, "Eat what I cook or go hungry," but my wife begged me to make onion free food for him so I relented. It wasn't that it was difficult, but it did take up a lot of space on the stove and was a general pain in the neck. I would get frustrated having to do this and sometimes when making spaghetti sauce, or anything else, I would add extra onion powder to his pot, taking secret vengeance. He never noticed. A note to you readers out there- don't frustrate your cook. Muahaha!

I tried to get him to try grilled onions and caramelized onions thinking he would like the different flavors since he had most likely only ever experienced crunchy, raw onions in his macaroni, but he never would give them a try. Then he comes home from the Marines one day and tells me his buddy was grilling onions with their steaks and now he loves grilled onions. Mixed emotions of wanting to kill him and being thankful to the Marine Corps for changing our son's palate flooded my heart. It makes cooking for him a lot easier now; unless it's soup.

Our son claims to hate soup. Yes; soup, a global food offering with limitless varieties is hated for no actual reason by one of our family members. Winters were fun at our house. Upon entering the kitchen and seeing me adding ingredients to the pot on the stove he would immediately wrinkle his nose and ask what I was making. Another word for you readers: when a family member is going out of their way trying to provide tasty, nutritious meals for you, you might want to learn to control your nose wrinkle response. I see it in my wife and daughters too. Nothing says contempt like wrinkling your nose at a cook's food.

Trying hard not to kill him, or yell, "Soup you little ingrate!" at the top of my lungs; I would calmly tell him, "Soup." He would then inform me that he would be dining on cereal. This strikes me as odd in retrospect when you consider that cereal, at its heart, is nothing more than crunchy, soggy, milk-soup.

I haven't even gotten to the girls yet. Our middle girl, the one who likes the chicken spaghetti, is OCD about her food touching. To the point that she will get a separate small bowl for her corn or anything else that could possibly stray into the neighboring food on her plate. I've considered buying her a green, plastic prison tray with the built in depressions for food, but then she would use it and get the last laugh on all of us. Sometimes I like to mix my corn and mashed potatoes in full view of her horrified face, laughing like Dr. Evil as she winces. Dinner is never boring at our house.

She also hates mushrooms. I have given up a lot of foods over the years that I used to enjoy because of my family's refusal to eat them. Mushrooms are one of them. Sometimes I will add them to a stew, but I now leave them chopped big enough for her to remove easily. She invariably ends up passing a small pile of mushrooms on a napkin to some lucky person at the table. Once, when I still dared to put them in spaghetti sauce, I tried to chop them in a food processor thinking she wouldn't see them and never notice. I was wrong. She inspects her food to an infuriating level if you're the home cook. She bends over it at the table with an accusing stare and starts slowly stirring through it with her fork, looking for offensive additions like mushrooms and cyanide capsules. Using this method she plucked out a minuscule fragment of otherwise unidentifiable mushroom on the tip of her fork and asked, "What's this?"

"A mushroom," I conceded. She didn't eat any more of that meal, acting like a head of state that narrowly avoided being poisoned. For months after that, any time she asked me what was for dinner the question was always followed by, "Are there mushrooms in it?"

Then there's our oldest daughter. She doesn't like corn. Or; she does, but not frozen corn or canned corn, but she likes corn on the cob. Or maybe it's: she likes frozen corn, but not canned corn. I'm pretty sure she likes mushrooms. And this is where we get into a huge problem; they're all so picky in their own ways that it's hard to keep track of who likes what. It seems that for most meals I find out all over again that someone doesn't like something.

This is mom's fault. She raised them to never try anything they thought they might not like and never forced them to eat anything. Don't get me wrong; I don't think we should make dinner time a horrible experience for children in the name of expanding their tastes, but I do lean toward just making them try things. If they don't like it; fine, at least they tried it. I think that a lot of times when kids say they don't like something, chances are high that they've never even eaten it before; they just don't want to try it.

But this is lost on my wife who has easily become the pickiest of them all. It's not her fault, she has been stricken with a terrible condition called Cuckooitis that has affected everything about her eating habits. She no longer likes pork, bacon, chicken, any kind of meat; except steak, but she probably won't like that tomorrow, never liked the chicken spaghetti and doesn't like any bread. She doesn't like pizza, people that eat pizza or Italy. She does like pasta; which doesn't technically count as Italian since it was invented in China, and vegetables- she loves vegetables. She doesn't like potatoes or rice unless I accidentally prepare them in a certain, undefinable way, which she will compliment and then I will never have the good fortune of reproducing again. She hates all fruit; much like my son with soup, and won't eat ice cream because it makes her teeth hurt then gets mad at us for eating ice cream without her. She likes diet soda, probably one of the most disgusting things on the planet. I'm not the type to get into the whole sugar substitute argument, I just think diet soda tastes nasty. Ants won't even touch it. If I'm going to drink soda, you might as well give me the sugar-filled variety. Either one is bad for you so give me the one that tastes good.

She will also tell me she doesn't want to eat sweets, but when I make myself a chocolate cake will ask me why I didn't make something we both like.

Who doesn't like chocolate cake? And I thought you didn't want any anyway.

It can be pretty maddening trying to cook for these people, but you'd be surprised; most of the time they actually like my cooking. Or at least, one of them per meal.








Breakfast prepared by the author.

Megan Is Missing

I just submitted a story for a competition, the writing prompt was this: when a man takes lunch to his wife's office, he's told that she hasn't worked there in weeks. The story could be happy, witty, serious, whatever you chose, but it also had to be 700 words or less. I'm long winded so it was a fun challenge to edit my idea down that much after originally writing about 850 words.

Here it is, hope you like it!

Megan Is Missing

My marriage had been in a rut for years. I had been secretly contemplating divorce for months, but couldn’t get up the courage to broach the subject. There were too many things I didn’t want to deal with: more fights and arguing, deciding who keeps the house, bickering over money. So I left it alone and suffered, wondering if things would ever get any better.
About three weeks ago, things began to change. I wish I could take credit for it, but I can’t; it was my wife who suddenly and dramatically changed in some amazing ways. She went out of her way to compliment decisions I made or little things I did around the house that she never seemed to notice before. She started cooking. When we married I understood that she couldn’t cook and that she had no interest in learning. It was one of those little things I overlooked at first and began to resent later, when I got tired of being the chef. Maybe it’s cliché to say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but I truly appreciated the delicious meals she was now preparing. I fell in love with my wife for a second time as she displayed more and more of these changes; the result being, that I began treating her better as well. I went out of my way to compliment her and talk with her; to connect with her. Our love life even improved.
I decided to surprise her at her work with lunch. As soon as lunch hour arrived I went straight over to our favorite Italian place and ordered meatball subs. Megan and I had been going to Luigi’s for years and loved how they loaded their meatball subs with tons of gooey, Mozzarella cheese that they made fresh daily.
The smell filled the car as I drove to Megan’s office. I couldn’t wait to see her face light up with surprise.
I was the one surprised; a stranger was sitting in her chair when I entered the lobby. Megan had been the Executive Assistant at the Ryan Brother’s law firm for the past five years. She must have stepped out of the office for a moment; hopefully not to lunch, as I was standing there with it in my hand.
“Welcome to Ryan Brother’s Law, can I help you?” the girl asked, smiling.
“Hi, I’m here to see Megan,” I replied, “I’m her husband.”
She looked confused. “I’m sorry, Megan?” she began. “Megan Koslowski? She no longer works here.”
“You’re kidding,” I chuckled. “She left home to come here this morning. What do you mean she doesn’t work here?”
“I’m sorry sir,” the young brunette answered, “Megan is no longer employed with Ryan Brother’s Law.”
My blood went cold. What was going on? Where was Megan?
“When did she quit?” I asked, puzzled.
“She didn’t; officially, Jack,” a male voice answered me from an open office door. Bryce Ryan appeared in the doorway. “She just didn’t show up one day three weeks ago. Never answered our calls. You didn’t know about this?” He seemed as puzzled as I was.
“No,” I said quietly. “I’d better go find out what’s going on Bryce; excuse me.”
I stepped outside. It had begun to rain. Reaching for my cell phone, a man in a black trench coat approached me.
“Jack Koslowski?” he asked, showing me an FBI badge.
“Yes,” I answered hesitantly, the rain spotting my glasses.
“Could you come with me sir? I’d like to speak with you about your wife, Megan.”
He helped me into a black, tinted van that had pulled alongside us. I had no energy to resist.
“What’s going on? Where’s my wife?” I was beginning to feel frantic.
“We don’t know sir,” he answered while closing the door and sitting down on the bench seat beside me, “but we have reason to believe the woman living with you is not your wife.”
My mind was spinning. “What?” I managed, “What are you saying?”
As the van sped away a man spoke up from the front passenger seat. “We believe your wife may have been replaced with an exact replica.”

For Russ

This is an edit and reprint of a blog post of mine from seven years ago. This week is the seventh anniversary of my good friend’s passing. Enjoy.

My friend Russ just died last Wednesday. Writing a humorous entry has been difficult, so I have avoided posting in the blog for a while. I apologize if anyone keeps up with my blog and actually reads what I write here. Wait, that didn't come out right.
I’ve been considering writing a post dedicated to Russ, but that would be difficult to do while maintaining the family-friendly atmosphere we have here. Many of our adventures are not fit to print, at least not in polite company. But I was remembering the few short months I went to live with Russ while he was living in Hawaii and a recurring theme kept popping up; animals, lots of them. So, this post is dedicated to Russ and the time we spent together in Hawaii. You might find it boring; and if so, I’m truly sorry, but this one is more for me than for anyone else.
I have a lot of good memories of Hawaii: walking to my job each morning as the sun would rise, sometimes creating beautiful rainbows over the Pacific; the waves crashing on the rocks at the Oceanside Café where I worked, the breezes, the tropical plants and fruit trees, and all the animals. Hawaii is a microcosm of amazing creatures.
To begin with, it seems Hawaii has a mongoose problem. Some genius had the critters brought over from Jamaica to help manage the rats in the sugar cane fields and now they’re an out of control menace to endangered species of all sorts on the islands. I say genius because the mongoose are daytime creatures while the rats come out at night. That said, mongoose are cute for being such destructive little things; who doesn't like Rikki-Tikki-Tavi?
Then there are the cats. Probably originating from the sailing vessels that first came to Hawaii, the cats were on board the ships to keep the rats in check there too. They quickly became another out of control problem for Hawaii, but at least they; like the rats, are nocturnal. I have to say, I never did see one rat in all of Hawaii, but if mongoose and cats are your thing, this is the place for you.
Russ explained the mongoose problem to me shortly after my arrival in Kona. He also pointed out the most beautiful geckos I have ever seen. Emerald green; they seemed to shine on their own, with a luminescence that came from within them. These geckos were everywhere; you would get in the car to go to the store and one would be riding on your hood. In the evening one would appear on your ceiling, just outside the circle of light produced by the ceiling fan; waiting for some hapless insect to enter the circle. Then; zip, in it would dart, grabbing the prey and off it would go, back into the darkness to dine in privacy.
Russ took me swimming in Kealakakua Bay once. I don’t know why he took me there since he was terrified of sharks, but he pointed out the Captain Cook monument and we looked at chicks. I did get him in the water with me for a little while. We swam out to some rocks off shore and snorkeled around looking at the red, black, yellow and multi-colored fish that hovered close to the rocks. These rocks jutted out of the seabed about fifteen or twenty feet and were literally covered with starfish and red and purple sea urchins. Looking out into the ocean while underwater can be rather unsettling. The bright blue water turns into an impenetrable gloom, out of which anything sinister could emerge; sharks, killer whales, politicians. After some minutes of checking out the rocks and fish, Russ got the willies due to the murkiness of the ocean and made for shore. I spent a few more minutes looking around before heading back myself, but Russ was right, the ocean can be spooky. I’d much rather watch a show about it on TV from the dry comfort of my couch.
We also used to go to White Sands beach near our house and go to Jameson’s, a bar there. White Sands is where I almost broke my back body surfing. If you’re ever body surfing and a wave smashes you face-down into the sandy bottom, one thing to keep in mind is that your feet are not supposed to also touch bottom, one on each side of your bewildered head, next to each ear. My body had curled around the wrong way under the incredible power of the wave and my back was sore for days after almost being snapped in half. I didn’t body surf for almost twenty years after that and then I broke my foot. It’s still healing as I write this. Note to self: no more body surfing.
Besides nearly needing a feeding tube, White Sands is also where I dove into a breaker and emerged with a jellyfish wrapped around my arm and face. Kona coffee has nothing on jellyfish for a quick pick-me-up. The poor jellyfish was instantly shredded as I flailed around wildly trying to get it off of me. My lip burned for days. And yet, I still remember my visit to Hawaii being a fun trip.
Once, again at White Sands, Russ and I decided to do something really stupid. We usually took stupid and elevated it to the level of an art form, but this time was special; we decided to swim way out from shore and scare the doody out of ourselves. The Hawaiian islands are volcanic mountains that rise out of the ocean, so naturally you don’t have to swim very far before the water becomes deep, black and terrifying, as I mentioned before. Combine this with the thought of sharks, orcas, riptides and those politicians and you have the makings for one rollicking good time. We left the beach, where the water was bright blue, and waded out to the darker blue water not far from shore. This was amazing for Russ, especially after our trip to Kealakakua Bay. We continued to swim out farther, passing Jameson’s at the end of the little bay and into the open ocean. The water was jet black under our feet. It is unnerving knowing that the island has dropped off under you into several thousand feet of water. We tread water and giggled nervously, mentioning the possibility of riptides and killer whales before heading back to shore. For some reason, the very act of swimming back had the effect of scaring us even more and we found ourselves increasing our speed the closer we got. We had done it! Stupid? Yes. Foolhardy? Definitely. Fun, daring and something I’ll never forget? You know it, but I don't recommend it.
Another time, and another creature entirely, we woke up and went to the kitchen for whatever we could scrounge up to eat and the entire parquet floor was covered in maggots. I asked him if he wasn’t hiding a body under the floorboards. Seriously, the kitchen and dining room floors were writhing with maggots. I don’t know why; I mean, we did party a lot back then, but we cleaned up after ourselves; we took out the trash and did our dishes. Maggots are creepy. Thousands of maggots are creepy and disgusting. It probably had something to do with a mongoose.
The last animal encounter I recall involved a Cane spider. Cane spiders make Tarantulas look small. Google Cane spiders and you will hear all the insidious lies about them being only 3-5 inches in span. I’m sorry, but I’ve lived in Arizona a long time and am used to seeing Tarantulas; I know what a 3-5 inch spider looks like. This spider we found sashaying across our dining room floor; possibly she’d heard about the free maggots, was large enough to cover a dinner plate. Reddish-brown and hairy, she carried an egg sac with her, along with a briefcase, cell phone and the keys to the van she drove up in. Harmless enough, we still wanted her outside where she belonged, maybe even on a different island like Maui or Australia. Russ got a stick to nudge her toward the screen door and out of the house. That’s when she dropped her egg sac. She may have been momentarily laying it aside to better utilize her nunchuck skills, I’m not sure. Russ shooed her out onto the porch and went to pick up the egg sac and place it outside with her as well- when it broke open. Hundreds, no, make that thousands; okay, millions- millions of tiny Cane spiders suddenly scattered all over the dining room floor.  Russ’ loud, anguished cry of, “Oh crap!” could be heard on the next island. I was laughing and cringing, watching all the baby spiders disappear into cracks and crevices throughout the dining room. One second there was an arachnid explosion on our floor, the next you couldn’t even tell they were ever there. I’m sure that to this day there is one house on the Kona coast that never suffers an insect problem, thanks to the hundreds of plate-sized spiders that patrol within its walls.
I love you and miss you Russ. See you in heaven.
T- 

I Don't Want To Surf Facebook Anymore

I've been off of Facebook for almost two years. I chose to delete my old account for various reasons and I never missed it, although I did miss the people; most of them. One major reason I got off though, was I considered it an enormous waste of time; there were times I would realize I had been sitting at my computer scrolling through my news feed for what seemed like hours. I felt exhausted afterwards, much like a drug or alcohol addict after going on a binge. There was also the same absence of satisfaction that comes with any addiction. I had spent all that time looking for something I was never going to find. So I kicked the habit and never looked back.
Until yesterday, that is. I opened a new account for a purely selfish reason: so I can link my writing to it. Maybe I should change the name of my blog to Hubris In Excess if, in my pride, I think I need to share this with people and that they could somehow benefit from reading what I have to say- about anything. But as a writer I have a need to be heard, I have to get it out there where people can read it so I figure Facebook and Twitter are as good of places to start as any.
So I opened a new account, added a picture or two, friended my family and a few other friends to start and began trying to figure out how to link my blog to my page. As a side note, my computer doesn't recognize "friended" as an actual word. I had to look it up and, no, "friended" is not the result of Facebook changing the English language. It turns out friended is an archaic Middle English word from around 1400. So Facebook doesn't get credit for adding the word to our language, just setting us back 600 years.
After getting off the computer last night I began to think about people I used to know when I was young. I grew up, well, sort of, I still haven't finished; but I partially grew up in Columbus, Ohio. My parents marriage fell apart when I was in my early teens and I ended up eventually moving to Tucson and leaving my childhood behind in a suburb of Columbus. I've always envied people who grew up in a stable home and maintained lifelong friendships. I never got to enjoy that and part of me wanted to look around on Facebook and see how these people had turned out.
So I got back online and surfed a few profiles and looked at their friend lists to see who I could remember. I did this in what I feel is a very real anonymity. Were any of these people to walk in and catch me doing this with their friend lists most likely their response would be, "Who are you?" I'm pretty certain that these people would not remember me or have any interest in looking me up. I was a social reject back in the day: overweight, braces, I also wore glasses from as far back as first grade. Bifocals. Yes, my eyes were that bad at age six. They got stronger through the wearing of bifocals and for the rest of my life I've worn single vision lenses, but I think it's almost time for bifocals again, I'm not getting any younger. You can probably imagine how well I fit in as a hip, fat, bifocals wearing, braces sporting, young nerd. Not very memorable in a positive sense. Maybe I'd be remembered for being a goof.
The people I was looking up on Facebook all had lives, for the most part; the "in" group; I'll get to them later. There were; however, the people on there that were more like me. There were some names I saw on friend lists where I was actually finding myself happy to see these people were still alive. I felt relief for these people with severely self-destructive lifestyles and way worse childhoods than what I had experienced who were still with us on the earth. I found myself cheering for them inside; they had made it. They had carved out a place for themselves in this world and appeared to be happy. That is one of the lies of Facebook, of course. You can appear to be as happy as you think you should be, but we all have struggles we hide from the larger world. These people were having good times and bad, but they were still here to share their happiness. There is no button for it, but I liked that.
Sadly, there were also the people that couldn't even manage to create the false front of happiness that is so easy to obtain through social media. These people looked tortured in their eyes. You could see the loneliness of their souls written on their faces. People I had known as a kid had grown up to have no friends, no family, no pictures of anyone and most of their feed was filled with posts about what level of a game they had currently achieved or messages from their mother wishing them happy birthday. This was heart breaking. I didn't even like some of these people back when I walked among them, but now part of me wanted to reach out to them and tell them, "I'm here for you, I'll be your friend!" Then reality would creep into the picture and I would wonder what the results of such an outreach would be. Are some of these people mentally unstable? Would they latch onto me in a grip of desperation so tight that it made it difficult to breathe? Would any of them be dangerous to communicate with? Maybe I read too much Stephen King as a kid, maybe I should reach out to some of these people; but the reality is, I won't. I have enough of my own burdens in life and I have to decide that feeling sorry for them is all the compassion I can afford.
Then there were the "in" people. Many of these people went on to be successful by the world's standards, some not so much. It's with that judgemental statement that I'm reminded of a feeling I had last night when I got the idea for writing this: I'm violating these people's privacy, or at least, I feel I am. That's strange isn't it? They put it out there for everyone to see and somehow I still feel like I'm prying into their private lives. It's such a personal thing, seeing how someone's entire life is playing out; especially in the context of comparing it to 300 other people on a friend list. You can see a bell curve being displayed right in front of your eyes and it's people's lives we're talking about. There are the losers, the modestly successful and the overachievers all lined up and waiting to be scrutinized. Or maybe I'm too cynical? Maybe this is just a group of friends all sharing with each other. As an outsider looking in on a group I was taken away from, it feels different. I wish I had had the opportunity as a child to remain in my small town and grow up with these folks, but would I now be the tortured, lonely guy playing Farmville or would I be the smiling and happy guy with my family?
I was beginning to talk about the "in" people though; let's start with the girls, now women. Again with the bell curve, this time it's a curve within the curve. There are women that have the same tortured look as the guys with no friends. Only these women have friends and they had it all back in the day; the looks, the popularity, the boyfriends. The looks are fading; naturally, it happens, yet some of them are trying desperately to hold on, dressing like it's 1985 and acting like the party never ends. The fact that some of these girls, ones that I had enormous crushes on as a young reject; the fact that they decided they weren't beautiful enough and had various surgeries is a depressing revelation. Especially when I remember how ugly I felt as a fat little kid with glasses, loving these unattainable girls. The world we live in puts too much pressure on women to be outwardly beautiful. I discovered that, what I considered to be some of my dream girls back in 1983 had gotten breast implants. You might say, well that's their choice. Sure, it is, but as a boy in 8th grade I never once looked at any of these girls and thought they would look better with bigger breasts. They were absolutely beautiful just the way they were. The world affects us all I guess, in lots of different ways.
There were also the women you could see struggling through life. Maybe they were the unattractive ones who were still single at this point in their lives. They work a dead end job and smile for the camera, but they look unhappy. I hope this doesn't sound harsh, because I say it with sadness. Looking back, as kids, none of us knew what lay ahead. If we knew how many of us would end up being the lonely ones, the forgotten ones, maybe we would have treated each other with more kindness instead of trying to be cool or live up to some social expectation the world imposed on us. Maybe we would have loved each other more.
There were the successful women too, and some were aging gracefully with families. At least there were a few things to feel good about on this trip down memory lane, if that's the right way to describe it. More like a new game show called This Is Their Life.
Most of the popular guys ended up being successful. I noticed something I considered unsettling though, most all of them ended up living very similar lives on the exterior. They went to Ohio State for business, liked the Buckeyes and got jobs in some sort of sales management. The number of people I saw who walked this road was amazing to me. I know these are real people, with real lives on the other side of the computer screen, but if you were an alien looking in on planet earth you would think these people are all pretty much the same. I wondered for a moment if that's the life I should have lived. Did I miss out on something? Should I be the regional director of sales for blah blah blah?
Then there were the guys who had it all back in the day and looked like they lost their minds somewhere along the way. Something happened to them and now they look like they belong to some fringe group like Anonymous or possibly a neofascist organization. What lead them down this road? Something caused them to become extremely disillusioned; or enlightened, depending on your world view, and lead them away from the societal norm they thrived in during school.
All in all I left Facebook feeling very thoughtful about life last night. I don't consider myself better or worse than any of these people and I don't consider them better or worse than me. I was just making observations that were slanted according to the culture I grew up in. I ended up where I am in life because that's how my life has played out. I made decisions and some were made for me. People would probably look at me with the same eye I had for their lives last night, if they were to remember who I was and had any presuppositions about where I should be now.
Life is a funny thing and a frightening thing sometimes, but all we can do is live it, hopefully with faith. I have only the best wishes for all those people and hope they find happiness.
I don't want to surf Facebook anymore.

There's A Bike With My Name On It At The Police Department

Last month a bicycle mysteriously appeared in our front yard. A white mountain bike, to be more specific. It was no great prize; it looked like it had seen a lot of miles and was a cheap looking brand. My first thought was that a kid in the neighborhood had dropped it when mom called him home to dinner. I figured they would be back for it and so we left it in the yard.
About day three I realized no one was coming back for the bike. It was creepy having a discarded bicycle lying in our yard. If a bicycle can ever look lonely, this one did, sort of like an eerie, ghost bike bemoaning the loss of it's owner. I wondered about the kid it belonged to. How on earth could a kid just leave their bike and not come back for it?
Then it dawned on me- it was probably a stolen bike that someone had ditched in our yard. Why, I don't know. Perhaps it was because we live next to a busy street and the thief didn't want to be seen riding it. But then again, "Why," didn't matter; what mattered was what to do with the bike now.
I was taking it out back with the intention of putting it in the alley; someone would come and take it,  but I didn't care really, I just knew I didn't want it. Something made me stop. "What is the right thing to do?" I wondered. With the vast number of moral failings in my life I was suddenly considering the proper avenue to take in getting rid of stolen merchandise. I think I'm a pretty strange person.
The thought occurred to me to call the police and ask them if I could just ditch it in the alley for the trash pickup. I called and they told me I could not and said they would send an officer over to pick the bike up and give me a receipt for it. Disaster averted, I waited for the policeman.
Twenty minutes later the car arrived and the officer took the bike away, giving me a receipt and informing me that if no one claimed the bike in such and such a time the bike would become mine if I wanted to claim it.
As a side note, I've noticed that police never want to come into my house when I invite them in after reporting something. Maybe I'm a scary looking person? Hopefully it's just protocol to not enter people homes unless it's necessary, but here in Arizona when it's over 100 degrees outside, I'd rather they come in where it's cool to fill out paperwork. I promise not to do anything stupid.
Back to the bike, I don't want to claim it; it's a piece of junk. Today I received a notice in the mail that the waiting period is complete and I can go pick it up if I want to. In another 30 days the police will then get rid of it. Kind of makes you wonder how much stuff is down at the police department looking for an owner. Why can't someone leave a '68 Corvette in my yard?