You know there are things in our past that should stay in our past. Events, relationships, deeds- that had good intentions that just went bad, emotions, situations... just stuff.
Things that are best forgotten.
Every now and then something will come along that will drag out those old Things and the emotional weight of those moments resurface along with thier memories. The insecurity, the anxiety, and the confusion that goes with trying to sort out and pidgeon-hole those emotions back into place are tasks that I've become all to familiar with, but sometime overtake my emotional toolset. And I have to stop. Take a breath. Wipe the sweat, and remember that that was long ago.
I'm not trying to be dramatic. There is no skeleton in my closet. There is just this person who I was then, that now I wish never was.
Maybe, I'll write about it one day... maybe not.
I find that I have no problem relating the funny/stupid stuff about myself, but also find that I don't have the courage to bear it all.
Last night RZ's school had their first football game of the season. Normally this wouldn't have been worth writing home about, but since I was bored out of my skull I decided to write a post-- this post.
RZ, Leslie and I get to the field about an hour and a half before kick-off, not that punctuality is our hang-up or anything, but RZ and the other LEADERS OF CHEER (L.O.C.) had planned a tailgating party.
oh joy.
When we got there the festivities were starting to crank up. The LEADERS OF CHEER had their social order in action, their "game on" so to speak.. RZ and her crowd pooled together like mercury. The other parents, whose finely-honed small talk skills were in high gear, grouped together much like the L.O.C.
Leslie and I... well, let's just say that small talk soirees are not our thing. That's analogous to saying that pre-frontal lobotomies are not our thing either.
Don't get me wrong, we were there like a good set of parents should be, we just decided that this particular situation called for our anonymity. Anonymity from the tailgate of OUR car. Anonymity with bourbon.
So we're sitting in the back of our 100 degree car, having a drink, completely invisible, whispering sweet nothings into each others ear...
"...Hey look! It's the Queen of Planet Big-Hair..." "...Oh my god, She's anorexic..." "...Oh shit look the other way or they'll come over..." "...yeah it's sad. It reminds me of The Virgin Suicides..." "...her facial features are ape-ish..." "...I heard he beat the shit out of her because..."
Our anonymity gave us the opportunity experience the closeness of our gossip. No real harm done, just our little thing. In retrospect, I guess it was our little piety (or perversion, whichever fits in your opinion).
So after a few drinks it's time for us to head inside the stadium.
We walk in and take our seats. Top row of course, so we can lean against the fence. It's also cooler on the top row because of the breeze, but anyway.
We get to our seats. We're not there more than five minutes when Leslie leans over and whispers, "did you bring your camera? You're gonna love this..." to which I say " uh-uh, why?" then she bumps her head and looks over to our right. There, not 12 feet away from where I sat was the most perfectly formed mullet I had ever seen. It was on the head of one of the moms. It was the pure, un-adulturated definition of mullet. It was an ubermullet. It was a fem-Mullet of the highest order. From that moment onward, that woman was to be known as: MulletFury. MulletFury had a child with her. I'm sure the kid had a mullet as well, but for the life of me I can't recall anything other than MulletFury's flowing locks on the backside and her amazing bristles on the frontside. I was hip-no-tized by MulletFury. She was a true, rare gem.
Kick-off!
By this time Les and I are caught up in our little gossip-game. As odd as it sounds, it was kind of romantic sharing our laughs while the others around us were clueless.
"Hey look at the guy in the wife-beater. A might bit studly wouldn't you say?" "Why yes. Why just look at the testosterone puddles under his pits...You can see 'em from here." "Manly." "Manly indeed."
"...There's Regal-Beagle.... his ass is so uptight, that..." "...There's Potsie McGillicuty (not his real name), I'd like to pop him like a zit..." "...That lady has crazy eyes... I bet she'd kill you in your sleep...." "...naaah, she'd wake you up first then off you...."
End of the first quarter...
Big Funny shows up and sits with us. The hilarity continues.
Half time...
Big Funny and I are having a political discussion while Les and MaryLou (not her real name either) go to the concession stand. It's no secret as to whom--politically, we have a problem with (pssst...his last name rhymes with Shoosh, smoosh, and push, and ironically enough is spelled like Lush, but with a "B"). Well Big Funny is soapboxing like a pro. The man is quite an orator. Soon I notice the couple in front of us are bending their ears to listen in. That's when I decide to pour it on thick.
"HITLER-ESQUE BASTARDS!!! The tactics they are using are no different than that of the Nazis during to World War II! I can't BELIEVE they haven't been brought up on charges... YET!!! Cheney blah, blah, blah. Halliburton blah, blah, blah. Bush blah, blah, blah. " I didn't really know (or care) what I was saying, I was just pandering at this point.
It worked. Within a few seconds those two were yanking up their University of Georgia stadium seats and finding a more "like minded" part of the bleachers. It was great, but I was just doing it out of meaness and spite. Besides, they were taking up Leslie's legroom.
Third quarter...
Big Funny announces that he's going to the concession stand and asks if anybody wants anything. As he's about to walk off I join him.
We're talking about movies and music on the way to get our snacks.
"...Have you heard of this song by John Prine?..." "...Have you heard of Wilco?..." "...Alt Country, what the hell is Alt Country?..." "...What about Modest Mouse? They remind me of Rusted Root...." We banter back and forth.
We get to the concession stand and Big Funny orders and gets his food.
I get a Snickers bar.
We're talking and joking on the way back to our seats. I'm gnawing on my candybar like there's no tomorrow when, i stumble at the same time I'm chewing and...
~~~SSSSCLUNCH~~~
I bite my tongue. Scratch that... I mangle my tongue. I bite a frikin' hole in my tongue. I bite the tip off of my tongue. Think of that Dairy Queen commercial where the guy gets his tongue caught in the blades of a hand mixer then add blood!
It hurts so bad that I'm seeing stars and my whole face goes numb. I'm half about to pass-out, half about to throw-up from the pain. Dizzy. I'm dizzy it hurts so bad.
I get back to my seat and sit quietly wishing to die.
"What's wrong" Leslie ask. "Uh Bih Mah Tuh" I say, trying to be cool and trying not to black-out all at the same time. "I bih ah-ight" then Leslie wants to see IT. There something a bit humilating about sticking your tongue out and gushing blood on your wife while your at a high school football game, but I do it anyway. "OOHHH MYYYY GGGODDD" she shudders "You've got blood and skin hanging..." Then she starts retching.
I'm starting to fear that my tongue-- the strongest muscle in my body-- the pride of my mouth, is damaged beyond repair.
And I'm starting to feel a tinge of self-consciousness at this point along with pure agony.
Game's over. Home team loses by one...
"Lesh guh hoom... eww godda dwibe" (interpreted: "Let's go home. You've got to drive").
On the way home I was quietly reeling in pain when I realized that: A.) God doesn't like it when we're mean, and... B.) God doesn't like it when we talk about other people and... C.) Above all God must really dig mullets.
If my tongue gets back to it's normal self I'll never make fun of another human being as long as I live...
I had an observation about something that happened today and story or two to tell. And yes, I just remembered I need to finish up "The Chief" saga, but I'm right now just too damned exhausted.
My fingerrs hab ben dwibbbling whch has mme htting th bckspase btton too much.
Backspace is like cowbell, back when cowbell was bad.
---Newsflash--- RZ made the cheerleading team, squadron, coven or whatever you call it.
Rah.
After all of the trash she and I talked last year about cheerleaders... the art of cheer... and cheerleading and the demise of western society. What does she do? She goes and signs up AND gets picked to be on the team. Oh suburban bliss.
I'm proud for her, but a little heart-broken as well 'cause man were we ruthless last year with our jokes. It was something we shared. Our unifying father-daughter bond. Our... Our... Our special moment.
Now she's going to lose all of that finely honed cynicism I've been working on all of these years and become.... Chipper (did your head bob to the side when you read that word? Mine did.).
I'm not sure if I've mentioned before why I blog. It's less of an exercise in vanity and more of one of humility, as well as memory. The fact that it serves my Id is a great by-product but not my primary reason.
My end goal, if you will, is one day when I'm dead and gone my daughter will have something to remember me by. Granted this may be more of a high-brow ideal than the contents of the site can provide.
All the same, it's my voice, and to the best of my recollection it is the truth as I have experienced it.
I can't say it started out this way. Initially I started blogging when Google bought Blogger and offered the free "Blog This" link on the Google Toolbar. I thought I'd give Blogger a second go around. The first time was in the late 90's when Blogger was just starting out. I signed up for an account just after I read an article about how blogging was supposed to be "IT" on the 'net. I posted three paragraphs and ditched it. Being verbally handicapped-- writing, especially when I didn't have too, rated up there with anal wart removal with a pair of wire snips.
But here I am. Digging up stuff I thought I'd long forgotten. Stories, secrets, recipes, dirty laundry, and anything else that wakes up in my head and says "Hey Mark, did you ever tell RZ about...".
All of this being said, I offer up the latest memory du jour.
This is about one of those times I actually set out to make a memory. I was in my early twenties, I had ZERO responsibilities and I was gleefully stupid. I wanted to do something I could impress women (and eventually my great-great-grandkids) with. After much fore-thought and careful consideration, I decided to take up sky-diving.
Now a days, that's not such a monumental thing. You simply decide you want to jump, you then strap somebody on your back who knows how and what to do with a parachute and you hop in a plane. It's little more than The Great Gasp at Six Flags.
When I learned to jump (this is when you roll your eyes and say something about walking to school with barefeet in the snow, over broken glass), there was no such thing as tandem. No, I had to go through frikin' Jump School. Hours of bust-ass training, parachute landing falls, and the ominous "...if your chute fails to open..." protocol being drilled into my skull.
After all of that training I was better prepared to be a Special Ops Combat Soldier than at any other point in my life.
Anyway, after several hours of ground training it's time for us ("us" being my brothers in fearless pursuit of our manhood) to "Suit Up!". Suit up entailed dressing up in a nylon suit and a ridiculous helmet. The suit I figured was to contain the contents of your colon if anxiety got the best of you. The helmet, must've been a scoop for the guy who would have to go out and retrieve what was left of you "...If your chute fails to open..." and you hit the ground at 126 miles per hour and forget to bounce... The helmet was useless.
So I'm suited up. I'm in a nylon "bag" that is seven sizes to large for me, and a good for nothing bowl on my head. I look like one of those idiot clowns from Cirque du Soleil. What I haven't mentioned so far is that it was August. In Georgia. It was hell hot. It was particularly brutally hot that day.
Anyway... There's me, four other guys, and the Jump Master (the guy who trained us) waiting in the 104 degree heat, in our nylon outfit bag uniforms, and our brain scoops waiting for the plane to land.
The plane finally touches down and pulls around for us to load up.
This is where the warning lights finally start flashing in my head. Mentally I noted them and through proper ground training ignored them.
The plane was a little Cessna 172 that had been gutted of its interior, save for the bucket (literally) that the pilot was sitting on. The door to the plane has been reconditioned so that the hinge is on top and at altitude is supposed to get out of the way of the jumpers.
We ALL load into the plane. Then the plane powers up to full throttle and it bumps and sputters its way across the pasture. Finally as we're closing in on the oaks at the end of the field we leave the ground. Barely clearing the trees.
In what I recall as being the worst, most terror filled twenty-five minutes of my life we finally get to altitude. 13,500 feet. I guess it took forever because of the weight in the plane, and the density (or lack of) of the hot summer air.
The pilot nods to the Jump Master, signaling that were over the drop-zone. He un-hitches the door and it flings up and open. 75 to 85 mile an hour winds blow in. I hold on for dear life, fearing that my chute might open at any second and drag my upper torso (only) out the plane. It's like what I imagine a hurricane to be like... extreme wind... extreme noise... and panic. Frenzied panic.
The Jump Master signals to the first jumper and yells "ON THE STRUT". That's the jumper's command to crawl out onto the strut that supports the wing and hold on until your instructed to let go and freefall.
"DROP!!!"
And with that one syallable that guy has vanished. That part was, and still is disturbing and I don't know why. I digress.
Then the Jump Master looks at the second jumper and yells "ON THE STRUT". Number two crawls over me then scurries out onto the wing.
"DROP!!!" And blink he's gone.
The Jump Master then turns his attention to me and yells "ON THE STRUT". This is where things start getting foggy. "JUMPER!!! ON THE STRUT!!! NOW!!!" I look at him square in the eyes as if to say "Gee Mommy, will you get me a cup of milk. My dog's name is Missy." He's looking at me as if he's saying "Dude are you all right? You don't look too good." Then he says again louder, "JUMPER NUMBER THREE!!! ON THE STRUT!!!" And with that command, my right hand reaches into the wind, out the open door and leads my body to the strut.
At this point I'm in total sensory-overload. My brain has just kissed me on the cheek, waved good-bye and said "Fuck this. I'll see you on the ground. Good luck." I'm running on a brain-stem level of cognizance.
So I'm hanging on the underside of the wing. My whole body is limp except for the steel grip I have on the strut. I... well my body anyway, is flailing in the gale-force breeze like a sheet in the wind, my head is bouncing around like a bubbles in a drain.
"DROP!"
I do nothing.
"JUMPER DROP!!!" He orders.
Still, I offer no response. I'm paralyzed in fear.
"JUMPER NUMBER 3... DROP NOW!!!" He screams.
Finally it registers that I need to let go, and I do.
I can't remember anything until the parachute opened and the voice of the lady who was going to talk me down came over the radio in my helmet--an angelic voice for sure.
I blanked out.
No freefall, no memories for the great-grandkids, all of that time, effort, sweat, and money for nothing. I did get to see Stone Mountain-- 30 miles or so off in the distance. That and the landing is about the only things I DO recall.
By far, this is the most intense fear I have ever experienced.
After everyone had landed safely, we met with the Jump Master for him to critique our jump and sign our log book. "I thought you had broken your neck" he said to me as he was summing up my performance. "I ain't ever seen anybody's head move like that... You au-ight?" To which I said... "Did yOU SEE MY LANDING!? ...ON MY FEET! MAN WHAT AN INCREDIBLE RUSH! I AM ON TOP... I... I RULE THE WORLD!!!"
Of course, later I was lauded as a brave, courageous, "man amongst men" to everyone I shared the not-so-true version of the jump with. An American hero, without question.
Truth is... I wet my pants. Thankfully, I was covered in so much sweat that nobody ever figured it out.
" Go team! Go team go! Score a goal unit! Beat the opponents, soundly! In the skirmish!*" *My Apologies to Brian Regan
Sports, or maybe I should say the playing of sports, like in a team environment has never really been my thing.
Don't get me wrong, I enjoy watching sports. I enjoy going to a game every now and then and "rootin' for the hometeam". I enjoy hearing my wife get all lathered up over a play at home, or hearing her "oof, oof, oofin' " to the bark of a Georgia Bulldog's cheer whilst she's had a beer or several.
I'd have to say that sports is something my brother excelled at. He got the quarterback's share of the ball-playing DNA.
But I do have a trophy. One trophy. A Most Valuable Player trophy. I earned it playing--of all things-- softball. Church softball. Women's Church Softball!
It's true. Testosterone-ladened, Nut-scratchin', Me, MVP, Women's Church Softball.
It happened a few years ago when I went to one of Leslie's softball games. We got to the field and her team was a player short. Her coach asked me to play. I told him to "go to hell". I hadn't played ball since I was in the second grade. Since I "hacked at the ball like I was chopping wood".
[SIDEBAR] To those of you parents who feel that teamsports builds character and all that crap, that's a load. What happens if you kid isn't any good, he get's laughed at by the kids on his team, by the kids on the other team, by his coach, by his coaches wife, by his coaches kids, by people in the stands, by the people serving up Fun Dips in the concession stand, even by the damned umpire at homeplate. Your kid learns the harsh reality of sucking at something so extraordinarily bad that he realizes doing nothing, and being DAMNED FINE AT THAT, beats humiliation hands down. Also note parents of said child, if you go out of your way to get the team to make allowances for little Johnnys' lack of abilities you might as well go ahead and get a good defense attorney on retainer, 'cause little Johnny going to snap--in a harsh way-- one day. I'm just sayin'. [END SIDEBAR]
Sorry back to the story... Anyway, there was no way I was going back out onto that field to relive the horrors of little league trench warfare. Nope. Nuh-uh. Wuh-uhn gonna do it. No way.
The coach pleaded. "Nope." The coach, and the other players, begged. "Nuh-uh." The coach, and the other players, and Leslie cojoled. "No!" ------------- So I'm out on the field.
I've got a cage over my face, I've got a metal stick swinging at my head, an object being hurled at me as hard as the person (my wife) can throw it, and that son-of-a-bitch homeplate Ump (the Ump my nightmares were made of), humping my shoulder.
I'm the fucking catcher!
"Oops. Sorry 'bout that" I say as I throw the ball--like a girl no doubt-- back to my wife/pitcher and it winds up in right field, "my bad". She bobs her head, like all cool jock types do when they HAVE to acknowledge a dork. The Ump gets closer to my ear and says, almost in a whisper... "You can roll it to her if you like.", that bastard.
Third inning. Oh crap, now it's my turn to bat. "Just remember swing out, not down... Out not down. Out not down." I kept telling myself while I was in the "on deck" circle. While I was chanting, and sweating bullets from the stage-fright anxiety, the batter ahead of me struck out. She was the third out.
Oh no!? That means I'm first up next inning.
Let's see, can I have any more pressure on me at this point?
I know, how's about a good case of diarrhea... oh yeah why not!? Nothing says over-the-top anxiety like a bout of jet-propelled mud while you're in the catcher's crouch.
Anyway, I make it through the inning, undies still tight and white. I had dug valleys in my shoes with my toenails staving off the beast that was clawing from inside of my belly, but I'd made it through the inning.
My turn to bat. "Out not down."
"Shfloot". The ball is in the catcher's mitt, the Ump calls "strike", all this happens while I'm trying to get my "seabiscuits" arranged.
I look at the Ump like he's a child-molester. "Yer in thuh battuh's box." he says as he looks down at my feet. I step out of the chalk for a second, like I really know what I'm doing. Then step back in. Ready to swing at anything, real or imagined.
The pitcher--a manwoman of firm stature-- sizes me up, laughs to herself a little bit, then let's go of one of the meanest, mad-demon, arced pitches she can muster across the plate (yep, it's slow-pitch).
I swing.
"toink."
Oh my god, I made contact. I've never done that before! Oh yeah, I'm 'sposed to run. RUN! RUN TO FIRST! RUN FORREST RUN!!!
The ball didn't make it out of the infield. But it was a fairball. I had a hit, if I could only make to the base.
Now, I may not have been much of a player, but there's one thing I could do well--athletically. I could run. And there's one lesson that I learned on the battlefield of little league baseball... If you get a hit, run it out!!!
So I was at first base, picking my nose, before the third-basemanwoman had gotten her glove on the ball. A hush came over the crowd as they realized I had just gotten to first-frikin'-base. I had beaten out the throw!
The game could've been over right then and I'd been happy, but get this... I went on to a.) steal second and b.) score! Whosyerdaddy? Uhh-huh. That's right... Yeah, yeah, that's right. Uh-huh.
We (I laugh as I say that cause 'we' makes it sound like I'm the team captain or something) went on to win the game. Leslie and the team went on to win all of the games that season.
At the season-ending pizza party, the coach had trophies for all of the players. As he was handing out the awards he called me up and gave me the MVP. He told everybody that if I wouldn't have played that day he would've had to forfeit the game, squashing their winning record.
Surprised, I thanked him and took the trophy without any fanfare-- no speech, it's not what I do. In addition to the trophy, I took home a huge pile of new found dignity.
What I did on My Summer Vacation Version 2.0.87a Beta
[Soppy Shit Alert: Warning some of the copy below is laced with an inordinate amount of "awe ain't that sweet". Results may vary.]
I figured I would have posted this before now, but with having to get back to the real world and all of it's necessary: morning poops, and showers, and getting dressed, and "Rene Zellweger" calling me at work screaming and crying inconsolably about the rabid dog that was--as RZ put it-- "shooting fireworks out her throat"**, and deadlines, and Leslie's computer being screwed up, and brushing of teeth, and pissed-off clients, and sleep... and you get the picture.
I guess I'm TRULY back from vacation.
Before the "day-to-day" overtakes the memories of last week I would like to give a run down of our trip. For your viewing enjoyment, I give you Coloradodyssey...
After all of that coming back has been challenging. In an email yesterday somebody ask me if I had a good time on vacation. I think my response*7 pretty well sums the whole thing up. ------------- Vacation? Oh god did we have a good time. It was unbelievably beautiful. It even snowed while I was up on one of the mountains. Snow, for this Georgia boy is like Christmas morning for a seven-year old! I frikin' danced in the snowfall, thankfully I was by myself at the time. All in all, we're pretty depressed about having to come home.
Leslie (my wife) cries everytime she shows the pictures to her friends. Emotionally, it's kind of like what I'm sure near-death survivors go through. One minute you're in heaven hanging loose, shooting tequila with The Almighty, the next minute you're back in the "here and now" with somebody pounding on your chest and sticking needles in you! -------------
Pounds and needles. I tell ya, pounds and needles. ------------------------------------- Footnotes and Disclaimers -------------------------------------
** - HolyDog apparently ate a bee then she started running in circles, foaming at the mouth, hacking and retching until finally the poor beast hurled and got it out of her system. RZ was a wreck, she thought the dog was dying. "It's more than I CAN BARE!!!" she screamed--poor kid, such drama. So I rushed out of the office and got home just in the nick of time to have the dog warmly greet me at the back door with a bark, and a wag of her tail. Feeling fine. And yes, I cleaned up the HolySpew, bee and all.
*2 - Mountain biking is a bit of an overstatement, we coasted 14 miles downhill from Vail Pass to Frisco. Saying we "mountain biked" sounds cool and sporty and all, but it was truly mountain biking for lazy, fat-ass, tourists on vacation.
*3 - "Climbed a mountain", yep more bullshit. With spin like this I could be in politics. Truth is my brother-in-law and I drove to within 200 feet of the summit of Mt. Evans and hiked up the rest of the way.
*4 - True. My vacation was better documented than the past four years of the Bush Administration.
*5 - On a wheeled tobogan at the Alpine Slide. I totally busted my butt too! I was going too fast, took a turn the wrong way, then all of a sudden-- WHOOP I'm barreling down the chute on my back with my feet in the air and my legs spread. Grace, pure grace.
*6 - We look comfortable. Looks are deceiving. At the very moment this picture was taken we were in dire need of oxygen. Our O2 saturation was down around 38%. High-altitude delrium, sunburn, and dehydration just made us look pretty.
