25 Years and 3 Reunions

On Friday I came home after a fifteen hour workday to an empty house and a full mailbox. I dragged my weary self through the front door with my arms laden with mail, my backpack, house keys, car keys (Yes, I have two separate key rings),Nintendo DS, Zune and various other daily necessities that have seemed to overtake my need of a more simple life that does not involve any electronic gadgets and sundries.

I dumped most of my armload onto my desk and watched as some of the items decided that they would rather rest on my desk chair or the floor. I decided to let them. I was tired. Too tired to even try and think about picking up any mess that I had just caused in the avalanche of gear that has seemed to attach themselves to my daily life. I grabbed the armload of mail though as I headed over to the couch and flopped my 190 pound frame of exhaustion onto it and reached for my laptop. Why? Because that’s what people do when they come home in this day and age. They sit down, fire up the computer and tweet or facebook or myspace or check email and let the world know they are home and ready for a night of snarky comments and virtual bad behavior.

I do this.

You do this.

This is nothing new or shocking. And, while I am waiting for the magic box of communication to warm up I am sorting the gifts the postman has brought me. Bills, bills, bills, Spam, Spam, Spam…what’s this? Hmm, a letter from my Alma Mater? Wow, what could this be?

Rip, rip, tear, tear.

Once open I see the letter contains two pieces of paper, one is a form to fill out if you plan on attending the 25th reunion the other is a questionnaire. Funny, I think to myself, I’ve never gotten an invitation for either the 5^th, 10^th, 15^th, or 20^th reunion. But, here, sitting on my keyboard is an invitation for my 25^th reunion. I set it to the side. I am gonna look at that later I tell myself. Now onto the questionnaire. Oooo juicy in depth questions from people not only do I not know but that I don’t even remember and they are all so “Politically Correct”

Who do you share your life with? Name of Spouse or Significant Other

Year met or married?

Tell us about your Spouse or Significant other? Where did you meet them?

Kids Name

How do you spend your time?

Current Job?

Most interesting job?

Places I have lived?

What do I do in my spare time?

Greatest High School memory?

One thing I know now that I wish I knew in High School?

Suggestions for 30^th reunion?

I have to laugh at these questions simply because I went to 3 different High Schools and the one I graduated from I only had 6 classes in 2 semesters. I knew and remember only 4 people from those brief months of September 1984 to June 1985 and I have not communicated with any of them since I left Wisconsin four days after graduation on a bus headed for Milwaukee and then a plane to San Diego. I also truly believe that since the envelope had my Given name printed on it that there really is no one there that actually remembers who I am or what I did at that school.

Now, I am not complaining so please do not read it that way. It is just the way things are. No painful memories are associated with anyone from the Class of 85 from Washington High School in Two Rivers, Wisconsin. Truly very few memories exist in my mind of that place and to tell you the truth, two years ago when I went back to my Alma Mater the place had been torn down and condominiums built on the land it had once stood. The new high school is located out near the interstate from what I am told.

All that being said about my third High School I feel I must clarify that I have also been invited to another Class of 85 reunion. This time though from some friends from Roncalli Catholic High School in Manitowoc. That is a reunion I would like to go to. You see I spent most of my sophomore and all of my junior year there and I met some amazing people and have even spoken at length with several of them over the past few years. Also, when I do end up in Wisconsin I inevitably run into at least one of the kind folks from that school and we always have wonderful memories to share with each other. Will I be going to that reunion? Nope.

There is only ONE reunion I am attending this year, only one I ever want to attend really, and it is with the men that I served onboard the USS Austin (LPD-4) with from 1985 to 1989. No school experience can come close to the education from Professor Uncle Sam or the University Of Enlisted Gator College.

As for my answers to those wonderful questions, I will only say that they are as vague as the relationships that I have with the rest of my graduating class of 1985. Matter of fact, keep your June 85. I will stick with the class of June of 89 when I actually graduated the Navy and knew that no matter what life threw at me I was prepared for it. All thanks to the men I served with.

Cigars and New Experiences

I like cigars. I do. More to the point I like good cigars, the kind you buy from a reputable Cigar Shop or one of the good Internet companies. Not the kind you get from your local Convenience store or the checkout line while your picking up a gallon of milk and baby wipes on your way home. The kind of cigars that you have to keep in a Spanish Cedar Humidor. Something with an aged wrapper, hand rolled with a nice filler and decent spice, a good draw and adequate smoke. A cigar that when you finish it you immediately want another but you know it won’t be the same.

Now, that all being said, I try not to smoke too many of them but lately my occasional vice has become a tri-weekly occurrence for which my daughter has been giving me a hard time about. Which is good. I am proud of her for harassing me to stop smoking and to live a healthier lifestyle, I have been telling her for over 10 years to “No smoke, don’t drink, don’t have sex, don’t do drugs.” You know, all the things “We” have done all of our lives and have thought that the people who told us not to do them were nuts. Well, my daughter actually listened to me. Go figure. I still can’t believe she actually listened to me.

So over the course of the last year or so I have “Come Out” as a cigar smoker and most people in my life have accepted it and some even support it. The reason for their support I can only speculate on but I do know my reasons for smoking them which I am going to post here;

1. They FORCE me to stop doing things and relax.
2. While relaxing I get to thinking.
3. Thinking helps me organize my thoughts and figure out what to do.
4. By organizing my thoughts I take the opportunity to write. Hence I smoke more to get more thoughts organized and things to write about. (See the definition of Vicious Circle.)
5. I truly enjoy the time, about 60 minutes or so, that I normally would spend running around like a madman just by myself. (I find my own company quite pleasant.)
6. I really like it when people stare at me as if I am committing a mortal sin by having a nice smoke. It makes me laugh at them.
7. I like the way a good cigar smells and tastes.

So, those are some of my reasons for enjoying my particular vice. I know we all have vices, some people are gamblers, shop-aholics, choco-holics, alcoholics, foodies, shoe collecotors, sex addicts and I am sure many other things that I have no clue about. Me? I am a cigar chomping, long haired opinionated Pollack.

So, you may be asking yourself, where is he going with all this? Well, I will tell you. The other night I was watching the series finale of one of the few television shows that I have been able to keep up with over the past several years when the main character opens up a box that was given to her last season and low and behold inside that box were some cigars. But these were not just any cigars. They were Gurkhas. The brand that is my favorite and you would see dominate my humidor if you ever opened it.

Before I go any further though I want to take this opportunity to thank an old salty shipmate of mine for introducing me to the Gurkha line because before he told me about them I was strictly a Davidoff, Montecristo and Romeo-Julietta smoker.

Thank you Brian! Much love and appreciation goes out to you for broadening my cigar horizons. And by opening the door to the Gurkha line you have also gotten me out of my rut and into trying other brands I overlooked for so long.

Back on track.

So, when I saw Holly Hunter as “Detective Grace Hannadarko” open up that box and I saw for the briefest moment a glimpse of what was inside I almost peed on myself. These were not just any cigars or any Gurkha, these were the “His Majesty Reserve” Gurkha’ they cost $750.00 a stick. These are rare and you just don’t see them anywhere.

“$750.00 a cigar? Are you nuts?” Grace Hannadarko

“They’re Gurkhas’. They are worth it.” The devil

Those are the two lines that pretty much ended the show for me. I had to agree with the devil on that one. Gurkhas’ are worth it. Especially the Nepalese Warriors, they taste like butter! Of course I will never have a $750.00 cigar. Shoot I feel bad for spending what little money I have on cigars and I can think of a lot better things to do with that kind of money. Still, I really would like to know what one of them things tastes like.

Ok, I am wrapping this up because it is going nowhere fast and I really want a cigar. No big revelations this week, no huge gut busting laughs, no anger or rage, no insights to the way I think. Just some cigar talk and the fact that I tried something new and I liked it. Hmm, maybe that is what all this is about, trying new things and having experiences because of the people in your life. On that note, I think I will try something new this coming week. Anyone have any suggestions?

Fish Revenge III (Fish's Gifts)

Ok, where was I before I was interrupted by life…Hmmm seems that Fish, Fin and I were in Fish’s basement sucking down an illegally obtained Old Style and some unauthorized smokes after being chased by the Green Bay Police Department and one very irate owner of a really cool Trans Am who now had to replace his windshield.

An uncomfortable change came over us as our laughter was absorbed into the concrete walls of Fish’s basement and our “Devil may care attitude” was replaced with a bit of nervous tension. We were all thinking the same thing, who saw us? Does anyone know Fin threw the snowball? Will the cops be able to track us in the snow? Is our Christmas over? Are we going to jail? Then, Fish stood up, grabbed the empty beer can and said “Who wants to see my presents?” as he headed toward the stairs to the kitchen. Our worries about our future were quickly dispelled by that one simple question. Fin and I glanced over at each other grinned and raced to catch up to Fish.

We caught up to him at the top of the stairs and we waited impatiently as he crushed the beer can and stuck it in the recycling garbage bag that was under the sink which seemed to be overflowing onto the floor and mixing in with all the cleaning products his mother kept there. “Hey, Fish, we could get at least five bucks for that bag if we took it to the scrap yard on Broadway.” I said.

“Yeah and that would pay for some smokes and a six pack. I bet we could get some girls over for a nice party if we did that.” Fin chimed in.

“Nah guys, my mom keeps a real close eye on these cans and the aluminum foil. If we took it she would notice and it would be my ass.” Fish shot us down quickly. “Besides she uses that money to take us to the movies and get us popcorn. I aint gonna mess with that or my sisters being pissed at me for a month if we did take this bag.” He closed the door and stood up. “C’mon, let’s go in the garage.”

As we entered the garage from the chill of the evening hit us dead in the face, arms and any other exposed parts of our bodies. We had all left our coats, hats and sweaters in the warm, smoke filled basement below. As Fish fumbled for the light switch in the dark Fin asked “Is this gonna take long? It’s cold out here and my coat is downstairs?”

“We have to go into the rafters. So, yeah it is gonna be cold and it’s going to take a while so go get your coat and grab mine too. Skip and I will set up the ladder” Fish stated

“Grab mine too Fin.” I yelled as he disappeared down the steps.

By the time Fin got back with our coats Fish and I had gotten the ladder set up in the garage and Fish had pushed the access panel to the rafters aside. As Fin handed out our coats, Fish swore us to secrecy and reminded us that we were blood brothers and not allowed to rat each other out. Then he disappeared up into the rafters.

By the time Fin and I climbed up the ladder and crawled into the rafters Fish had managed to surround himself with several black trash bags of presents that seemed about to burst. Each bag had a piece of tape with a different name of one of the Minnow children on it.

Fish grabbed the bag with his name on it and started pulling out packages that had been wrapped in a multitude of Christmas paper. Some of the paper had Santa’s on it, some had snowmen and some even had Christmas lights. All the colors were stunning and amazing in the dimly lit rafters of the chilly garage. Fin and I could not take our eyes off of Fish as he slowly pulled the magically wrapped boxes from their hidden resting spot.

“C’mon Fish! Stop goofing off and show us what you got.” I demanded

“Yeah cat, get moving. What’s gonna happen if we get busted by your Mom or one of your sisters?” asked Fin.

“Relax guys, Mom is working and my sisters have already done this and if they say anything about me I will rat out them.” Was his reply.

Once he had all the wrapped packages out and piled in front of him he pulled out his pocket knife and carefully opened it. We all had the same knife a twin blade Buck and the only difference in them was that we had all used my wood burning iron to carve our initials into the wooden handles so we would not get them mixed up. Fish then grabbed a square box and started to gently slice the taped ends and slowly unfold the paper. Once he had gotten the tape sliced he showed us the box.

He held the box out in front of us, it was black with the words “Bell” and when he opened the box and pulled out the gift inside it was a Pith Motorcycle helmet with some custom flames painted on the top. The flames started at the spike that was on top of the helmet and worked their way down to the edges of the helmet. It was amazing. I wanted one!

“This is for when my dad and I go riding in the summer.” Fish explained “And, I will be able to use it when I ride the dirt bikes too.”

“I gotta get a motorcycle so I can get a helmet like that.” Fin cried out jealously.

“Man, your gonna have all the chicks screaming for you Fish.” I said.

“Yeah” he said “and the flames are custom too. I don’t know where my Pop found a Pith helmet but it is sweet.”

“What’s next?” I asked.

“Well most of the boxes are clothes but how bout I show you the BB gun?” he offered.

Fin and I nodded as Fish re-wrapped his new motorcycle helmet and tape the ends shut. Then he took a long thin box that had Christmas light wrapping paper on it and performed the surgery on the ends of the package. Then he pulled the paper away to reveal not just any BB gun but a Crossman Pumpmaster BB/Pellet gun! The one I had wanted but instead received a Daisy Lever Action Repeater which was a great gun but it did not have any control over the velocity or force of the BB’s like the Crossman Pumpmaster and the Pumpmaster also shot pellets, something the Daisy could NEVER DO! When Fin and I saw this beauty of American ingenuity we started to drool.

“That’s the one I asked my Mom for!” Fin cried.

I was speechless. I had nothing. I was so jealous I couldn’t say anything. I just stared and reached out my hand and slowly ran it over the box, caressing the picture of the gun on the cover that was being held by a kid with a huge grin on his face. A grin that said “Ha HA!! Don’t you wish you were me? Holding this weapon and taking aim at whatever comes into view?” I wanted to burn that kid on the box!

“Man” Fish said, “I can’t wait till we can all get together with our guns and go get shoot some rabbits or squirrels by the soccer fields.”

“I gotta get one first!” Fin exclaimed.

“Ok, put it away Fish before Fin or I steal it from you right now.” I said.

A few minutes later Fish had the gun re-wrapped, taped and stored back in the bag.

“Ok, this is the last one guys. The remote control cars and not any kind. These are wireless. No tether.” He said as he put his Buck to good use on the last box.

When he showed us the box we were not disappointed. The cars were a twin set of red and blue Corvette Stingrays. They operated on two “C” cell batteries each and the remotes operated on 9 volt batteries. The picture on the box had the cars racing through some miniature traffic cones with smoke coming off the wheels and skid marks on the tiled floor. The box SCREAMED coolness!

“I asked for remote control cars this year.” I said to no one in particular. “I hope I get something even half this nice.”

“I got mine for my birthday.” Fin stated. “But they weren’t’ ‘Vettes. Fish, you got lucky this year. Makes me wish Christmas was here now. Let’s make a pact. We all meet at my house Christmas afternoon and you bring your cars and gun, Skip will bring his and we will have a blast in my basement till the batteries die then we can go out into the fields and scare up some rabbits.”

“Sounds good to me. How bout you Fish?”

“If I can get out.”

Fish wrapped up the cars, placed the boxes back in his bag and we helped place the bags back where they belonged. Once back down in the garage we stored the ladder away and headed back to the basement to talk about what sort of races we were gonna have with the cars and what sort of animals we were gonna hunt once the weather got warmer.

On the walk home Fin and I talked about how lucky it was that Fish and his sisters had a Family with a full set of parents that loved them and were around when they needed them. We really didn’t talk about the presents that much, just about having a Dad to show you how to ride motorcycles, shoot guns and just hang out with. Looking back now a little over 30 years later, I believe that Fish’s greatest gift that Christmas was his Family.

For Wolf

Dylan Thomas wrote:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I read this poem in the 6^th grade and I memorized its verse and applied my own cadence to it and have said it to myself over the course of my 42 years. (Pay attention here, this is important) Go back and read that poem again.

You get it? Do you understand? DO YOU HEAR IT SPEAKING TO YOU? IS YOUR BLOOD BOILING?

If you don’t hear it, if you can’t understand it, if it DOES NOT speak to you, if your BLOOD IS NOT BOILING!!!!

You are dead.

I have raged all my life against anything and everything. I have raged against my family, my wife, my friends, my enemies, my closest confidants, my newest acquaintances, my co-workers and supervisors. I have raged against earth, Mother Nature, the devil and god. I have raged and ranted and I have tried to suck the marrow out of every day I have been fortunate enough to be here for.

Yes, I have had my down times where I was in locked in the unforgiving clutches of despair and have felt her icy cold fingers slowly clawing their way into my heart, my soul, my life. There was no solace to be found in my desert of emotional turmoil and loss of will to breath. And during those moments I could hear a whisper in an incorporeal soft voice…

Rage

Rage

Rage

I hear it when I need it. When my Muse or my Maniac get to feeling a little ignored, which can lead to trouble if not acted upon in a “Proper and Sane” manner.

Both got loose yesterday and today. I am to blame, I let ‘em out to play. They were trapped inside for too long. The Muse was pasty looking and frail and when I let her out she feasted upon all the glorious little nuggets of wisdom, energy, beauty, ugliness and the grizzly fleshy bits of daily life where you experience Love, Loss, Joy and Pain. She gorged herself on everything. She was everywhere, in the rafters dancing across the beams, in the kitchen sneaking tasty morsels of freshly roasted turkey, under the picnic bench admiring the curves of the human form, dancing in a wading pool with a 6 year old boy and catching imaginary alligators. She was a Glutton and she brought it all back for me to store in my memory banks, boy do I love her.

The Maniac…

Well, now he is a maniac and I am not going to apologize for him. He is raw, unfettered, uncensored, uncut and He is truly the one guy I know I can call upon when I need my Rage. The Maniac has been chained up to a brick wall in a straight jacket with his hair on fire screaming at me to get out and let go. To get more emotional. To stop holding things in. TO OPEN UP! TO STOP BEING HURT AND FUCK SOMETHING UP. He was a whole lot more fun to watch.

I watched as the Maniac tore through some cigars, make wise assed comments with no filter, grapple folks, yell, scream, laugh, cry, try to embarrass people, try to be embarrassed, try to get through my thick skull that it is OK for me to let my shit out. Which is what I am gonna do here. So things might get a bit long. Right now I just don’t care. I can’t care. I AM IN RAGE!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote:

A Psalm of Life

Tell me not in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, - act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sand of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solenm main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

RAGE! I SAY!!! RAGE!!!

A man I admired, loved and respected took his life. I AM IN RAGE! NOT ENRAGED I AM IN RAGE!

He died with his bible in one hand, a gun in his other, the word of salvation on his lips, despair in his heart and a bullet in his head.

I want to burn heaven to ashes, I want to flood hell and I want to crush earth under the heel of my Chuck Taylors.

I want a do over. I want to stop this crazy ass ride and figure out what the fuck is going on.

I, I, I, this should not be about I. This is about Wolf.

He was the second man I met in my church. He understood my quiet observations, he understood why I was skeptical, he knew I had been disillusioned with religion. He knew, he understood. He did not pass judgment, he did not push a bible in my hand, he did not question my faith, my walk, my clothes my hair my life.

He was just there. He would open the door for you, get you a cup of coffee, a cookie, a donut, some cheese. He always seemed to know what it was you needed or wanted and how to get it quickly. When he smiled at you and waved to you his eyes had a spark in them that showed just how open he was and how much he understood you just by looking at you.

When time came for having a Super Bowl party, everyone went to see him. When you had a question that needed answering whether spiritually or secular you could always talk to Wolf. Wolf was not ordained at that time. He was just Wolf. He was there when you needed him.

But no one was there for him. He died in his backyard with his bible in one hand and a pistol in the other.

There was no one else there for him. No one knew his troubles, his demons, his moments of doubt and shame.

THAT PISSES ME OFF. He had our numbers. He had numbers to Pastors who would have gotten out of bed in the middle of the night, left their families and loved ones just to listen to him and help him. I would have. But I didn’t get that call. No one got that call.

No one talks anymore. Oh, sure we have 140 character tweets, short emails, Facebook status updates. But actual face to face, one on one conversation. Nope. It doesn’t happen. We’re too busy. PTA, Rec League Sports, Internet Blogs (Ooooo I went there.), Text messages.

Our days are packed. I know mine are and I know yours are.

Wolf had days like that. He spent almost 10 years doing volunteer work at our church, teaching, listening and learning. He got burned out. He took a vacation. But in truth it was not a vacation, it was a yearlong spiritual walkabout in the mountains of North Carolina leaving behind his wife and family. That took balls. But you know what? He grew and he started a new ministry for God. He was not seeking it out. It came to him. God sought him out and gave him a ministry and calling to help people in an isolated area where there was no light for the people who had pretty much been forgotten and lost by our modern society. He changed lives just by showing up.

Now he is dead.

Now I’m Pissed. I am ready to tear some shit apart, I am ready to take a flamethrower to the entire fucking system of religion and pressures it puts on people and I don’t feel that I am able to walk into my church with my head held high knowing that somewhere in our Faith system, in our Lives, our Friendships and our connections with one another where when one person is down and out, when they are at their worst and that they feel they can’t speak to someone. Can’t reach out and talk to someone. Can’t get any help from anyone.

I know I had no control over this incident. I am not responsible. I DID NOT DO ANYTHING TO MAKE THIS MAN DO WHAT HE DID. HE IS RESPONSIBLE FOR HIS OWN ACTIONS! I am however responsible for not letting him know how important he was to me. How he affected my life. How he influenced me. How he walked a path of Faith and Honor that I respected

Despair is a Bitch.

And the one place I find solace, the one inner calming mechanism I use to help me make sure that I have taken my time to ensure that I have the Peace in my soul so that I can function and that I have a love that I know I can never truly find on earth I can’t go to I can’t talk to. Because I am not ready to face him right now. I have been pissed off before at God. I have flipped him off. I have told him to fuck off and die, to stay out of my life and I will stay out of his. Rage. Different arrangements for a different man.

This should not be about me, this should be about Wolf but I keep coming back to my Soul and the pain I have there and the blood stains that are on it. Yes, my Soul is bleeding; I can see in my minds eye the slow trickle of blood as it stains the purity of my Earthly Ward. I am its caretaker and I feel I have failed. This should not be about me. But it is. I was in Wolf’s place. I was fortunate, I had a lifeline. I had a someone reach down in my pit and pull me out. Wolf had the same one. Wolf didn’t call. Now the world is a shittier place.

Rage.

I am gonna post this now dear reader and if you have stuck around this long I feel I need to tell you one last thing; This is not my original post. My original post was a much stronger worded and a bit more spicy. It was also written at 4 am in the middle of Pennsylvania at a meeting with people I like, love and respect. Maybe one day I will post it. Maybe one day…

RAGE!

Fish's Revenge (Part 2 of I don't know)

Fish, Fin and I had just got up from our 20 minute hiatus on a snow bank on Libel Street, Fish was still basking in his ability to play opossum and exact the type of revenge upon a friend that we all knew would elevate him to legendary status in our respective neighborhoods. We were all in good moods. Laughing, smiling, joking. Trying to perform round-house kicks and screaming like Shao-Lin warriors in the heat of battle. We were happy.

Then Fin did something stupid.

He made another snowball. A nice big, solid, well packed ball of ice. I can only assume he had been working on it since we had sat down after his face-wash by Fish. He was pretty proud of it too. "Look at this guys." he said. And we looked. We gathered up in a huddle and stared at the frozen ball of perfection. The ball was a little larger than a baseball and was packed so tight that when Fin placed it in my open hand I could feel its perfect weight pushing my hand down towards the ground. "This thing has some serious meat to it." I said.

Fish reached out with his hand "Let me get ahold of it Skip." and I handed it to him. "Wow, this thing is perfect Fin." he exclaimed. "Nice packing, not too big or small, smooth and round and the weight is unreal."

"Thanks." Fin stated. "Can I have it back?" as he reached out to grab his masterpiece of snowmanship.

Fish just stood there staring at Fin and holding the snowball in his right hand, cupped like a prize catch and then placed his left hand over the top of the snowball. I looked at Fin and then back at Fish. I felt like I was standing in the middle of one of the westerns we often got together to watch. You know, where the White hat and the Black hat meet for the first time and just sort of stare into each others eyes. Sizing each other up for future reference, usually 80 minutes or so later in celluloid terms.

"Sure Fin, here you go." Fish said and handed it back to Fin with a bit of reluctance in his voice and jealousy in his eyes. "Watcha gonna do with it?" he asked.

"Dunno." Fin replied "Maybe just keep it. Maybe save it for one of Skips sisters. I know Debbie sure has it coming to her after getting those 7th graders to pound me right before Thanksgiving."

"Hey Fin, you were telling everyone she stuffed her bra." I said half-heartedly and tried to defend my sister as best as I could. I really didn't want to because, well, to be honest with you, she didn't deserve it. She was always instigating things with me and my friends and when one of my buddies showed any interest in her she would then get some older guys from the neighborhood or at school to kick their ass. Mine too at times and became her MO almost all the way through High School. Well that is until I went to live with my father but that is a story for another time. (YES, I WILL WRITE ABOUT THAT IN THE FUTURE!)

"Why not? She deserves it. But don't worry, I would never waste a perfect snow-ball on her. She aint worth it." Fish retorted all of a sudden on Fin's side of things.

"Hey Cats, you both know I have to defend her, she is my sister after all and you're both right, she does deserve to be creamed for all the crap she puts us through but if we are gonna do something to her we have to go BIG. Not just a snow-ball even if it is the perfect snow-ball." I said.

Fish stood there nodding while the steam from his breath enveloped his head. Fin grumbled under his breath something about us not letting him have any fun and then said "Fish, you got any smokes left?"

"Sure man, I copped a whole pack from the old man's dresser. Shit, he has 4 open cartons in there so he wont miss anything." He said as he reached in his leather coat pocket and produced the red and white pack of Marlboro's and commenced to try and open the flip top box with his gloves.

"Hey Dipshit" Fin said while trying to stifle his laughter "you gotta take your gloves off. "

"Fuck you tampon breath." Fish retorted.

"Guys, stop yankin each others chain, cars are coming and I want a smoke." I said. Which was true. While we had been standing there several cars had come down Libel street. Slowing down when they saw us standing under the street lamp like the group of juvenile delinquents that we were. "I think one of 'em is a cop car." I warned.

"Ok, ok, here. Christ, cops aint gonna do nothin to us." Fish stated. "There's got to be at least 4 or 5 accidents they got to be at." We always listened to Fish when it came to the cops. Hi dad after all was a truck driver and knew how to talk CB language and also had the only Harley Davidson in either of our neighborhoods. It was sweet too. Candy apple red white custom hand painted pin stripes, side saddle bags, extra lights everywhere and more chrome than imaginable.

When Fish's dad drove her down the street you could hear her coming 4 blocks away and when you looked up to see the bike you were practically blinded by the reflecting sunlight off of almost all of her surfaces. Fish was always bragging how one day he would get the bike when his old man passed away or bought a new one. We secretly hated him when he started talking about that bike. But we were also jealous of him too. Especially when Fish's dad would bring Fish to school on the back of it.

All the kids on the playground or just coming off the bus would stop whatever it was they were doing when they heard that bike approaching. We would all stand around looking at this gleaming beast of a machine approach us at a speed that was most definitely not posted for safety. Old Man Minnow would pull up right next to the front doors of the school where NO ONE was allowed to pull up and as Fish would hop off the back of the coolest vehicle ever to come out of Milwaukee Iron Works with his leather coat, unzipped, flapping open. Fish would then pull off his helmet and attach it to the side of the bike on the helmet holder, say something to his old man and turn to us and we all wished we were him at that moment. Then, just as quick as he got there, Old Man Fish was gone in a thunderous rumble of twin cylinder glory that haunts me to this day.

Fish got his gloves off an handed out the cancer sticks we thought were so cool at the time. Then he pulled out a zippo and we all puffed up. A car honked at us as it passed and Fish flipped it off. "Screw you!" he yelled in false bravado as the car continued down the street.

Then Fin says "Next asshole that honks at us I am gonna toss this snowball at."

"You wont hit it." I said. "They go to fast. If you want to hit a car you have to throw the snow-ball at it before it gets to you. Sort of like a softball pitch."

"What do you know about it?" Fish inquired.

"Not much I guess, just what we learned in scouts about trajectories and hunting and stuff like that." I replied.

"So underhanded not overhanded and before the car gets to us?" Fin asked

"Yup."

HHHHHOOOOOONNNNKKKK HOOOOOONNNNKKK HOOONNNKKK

Opportunity knocks, well in this case honks and just about scared us stupid.

We turned an looked down Libel and we saw a set of headlight approaching fast. "I'm gonna do it!" Fin shouted "Wait for the right moment." Fish yelled. "Crap." was all I could say.

We could also hear the motor revving up, cranking up the rpm's and the driver started to lay on the horn some more as the car started to fishtail. The headlights lit us up and we stood there, frozen in place like a deer getting ready to be hit on a country road. I could tell it was a "muscle" car. Something with a super charged engine and mag rims. Something HOT!

As it approached Fish yells "NOW! FIN, NOW!" And Fin did, he tossed the perfect snowball in a gentle and amazingly perfect arc, the light of the street lamp and the headlamps of the car gleamed off of it and shot out flashes of light like lasers in all different directions. All three of us stood there watching this snowball fly gently threw the air with the car speeding towards the inevitable impact.

KATHWAAAAAM!!!!

It hit. It hit dead center on the windshield and blew apart like, well, like a snowball being plowed into by a speeding car. But that was not all. We all saw what was happening right after the snowball and car collided. The windshield started to crack and speckle in a million little pieces. The driver slammed on the brakes and the horn started blaring.

"Oh shit." Fin said.

"Fuck" Fish replied

"We're screwed." I stated.

That is just about the time that we all noticed the car proper. It was not just any car. It was "BANDIT'S" car. C'mon, you know the car, a candy black 1977 Pontiac Trans Am with gold pin striping, t-top roof, a gold Firebird painted on the hood with mag rims. Powerful, sexy, smooth and a total babe magnet! We had all seen Smokey and the Bandit, heck we all went to the theatre together and watched it. Ate too much popcorn and drank too much soda pop. Then when we got home afterwards we tried to learn all the CB talk we could. Which meant we bugged Fish's dad so much he threatened to not just disembowel us but also rip us limb from limb.

"YOU FUCKING LITTLE BASTARDS!!! IAMGONNAFUCKINGKILLYOU!!!!"

"RUN!!!!!!!" I think Fish yelled or it could have been me. We were panicked and I can't really recall but someone yelled it and I don't think it was Fin cause he was already setting out as fast as his snow boots could carry him. We lit out after him as fast as we could.

"COME BACK HERE YOU LITTLE SHITS! YOUR FUCKING DEAD!"

We ran, and ran and ran. When Fin turned left onto Memory Court we followed. As we approached the shortcut to the park behind the Court Fish and I had caught up to Fin and the Trans Am was barreling down toward us with its horn blaring loud and long. Lights from the houses around us were starting to turn on and people were starting to come out of their houses.

"We gotta split up." I yelled at my criminal partners.

"Fin, you head to the dugouts, I'll head towards the ice rink. Skip you head for the school." Fish ordered.

"Got it, meet you at your house soon." I yelled and headed for the school

Fin ran right and Fish turned left. I kept on straight. By the time I got up to the school I could see several of the people from the neighborhood out in the ball fields and hockey rinks with flashlights. An occasional incomprehensible shout or yell would drift up to me on the winds of the frigid Wisconsin breeze. When I got to the school I set out for Fish's house and on the way there I saw two of Green Bay's finest patrol cars rolling up and down the streets with their spotlights on and casting beams of light into neighbors yards, driveways and alleys. Every time I saw one of the cruisers I ducked behind a car, trash can or evergreen tree.

I made it to Fish's house and went right down to the basement. Fish and Fin were there smoking cigarettes and Fish had even been so bold as to pull out a can of Old Style beer from his folks refrigerator. Fin was sipping on it. "Bout time you showed up. We thought they caught you."

"Shut up dumbass and gimme a drink of that and a smoke." I retorted as I sat down and started to laugh.

Fish's Revenge

WARNING!!! This blog is a story of a part of a night from my youth. Some topics I have written in here may be a bit offensive to some folks. SO if you are easily offended or if you don't think you want to read this Blog then DON'T. You won't hurt my feelings nor will you offend me. Also, I have taken the liberty of changing some names and places (Just a Bit) to protect the Guilty or Innocent.

Two weeks before Christmas break in 1978 I found myself sitting in the basement of Jim Finnegan’s with Al Minnow and Jimmy. Respectively known as Fish and Fin, me? I was Skip. Always have been and always will be. It was a Friday night and we had just finished watching 7 Shao Lin monks defeat the entire Chinese Army with some round house kicks, slaps to the face and using “Bleeding Dragon, Crouching Mantis, Fisted Tiger and Hungry Llama techniques on a UHF station. C’mon, you know you remember UHF television. And if you don’t here is a quick note on UHF, you see before Cable TV and Satellite TV the only channels on the gigantic 19 inch color TV’s in your family room and basements you received were ABC, CBS and NBC all the other channels were on the UHF selector switch of the brain sucking device which has taken over our society and there were only usually 2 stations to choose from.

Now, on Friday nights and Saturday afternoons one of the 2 UHF stations always played Kung Fu movies, Science Fiction movies or old Westerns. We liked ‘em all. Didn’t matter if it were Monks, Aliens, Cowboys or Indians we always watched and then tried our best to impersonate what we had just seen in our own awkward Pre-Teen manner, sometimes those antics required stitches and band aids. That night was no different but seeing as it had snowed most of the day and we had not really had the opportunity to go outside and have a proper snow ball fight or even enjoy the almost pure, innocent natural wonder of the newfound magical world of whiteness we decided that it would be far more fun to try and kick each other in the heads with some soft, cushy snow to break our fall. So that is what we did.

I understand that some of you who live in the South don’t know much about snow so I will let you in on a little secret… you ready? Ok, here goes, NOT ALL SNOW IS THE SAME! I am serious; if you spend any time in the northern climates of the world you quickly discover this to be true. Now, Southerners when they experience a half an inch of snow pretty much shut down everything. No traffic in or out of the city, there is a run on food at all grocery stores, parents have to deal with their kids being home from school and no one under no exception goes to work. It’s true. I have seen it myself firsthand and it is quite amazing to see. ME? Being from the Great State of Wisconsin I find this baffling and confusing and quite humorous. But I go with the flow and chuckle at all the idiots who think the world is ending because of some “Dandruff” from the sky. I am used to going to school in Wisconsin after a night of 12 inches of white stuff hitting the ground while I sleep. Snow days up North are Rare and wonderful occurrences that we seldom had the chance to experience but always looked forward to.

The day in question when Fish, Fin and I set out after Kung Fu Theatre had not been a snow day. As a matter of fact we had been sitting in math class when the snow began to fall and this was no ordinary snow. This was LAKE EFFECT SNOW. Thick, wet, stick and heavy made up of flakes the size of your thumb nail. Perfect for snowballs, igloos and snow forts. The kind of snow parents hated shoveling and kids loved playing in. The kind of snow you see in movies and as a child you dream of during that long wait for a Fat Man in a Red Suit to come and give you all your hearts desires. It was that kind of snow and we wanted to be in it and on it and become the Kings of Memory Avenue.

So, we put on our two pairs of socks, sweatshirts, sweaters, vests and ski jackets, added out mittens and our stocking caps. Fish had a black sailors watch cap that I wanted so badly because it looked so bad ass on him along with his leather coat, Fin had Detroit Redwings knit hat that clashed with his orange hunting jacket and I had a homemade knit Green Bay Packer hat with a gold and green tassel on it and when I flipped up the sides of it read “GREEN BAY PACKER BACKER!” which match my Green Packer Ski Coat. We set out for fun and mayhem. We found it too.

We spent an hour or so behind Fin’s garage building a snow fort big enough for the 3 of us sit inside of Indian Style and once we were comfortably inside Fish broke out a pack of smokes and we blazed up talking about all the girls in school we had crushes on and what it would be like to go on a real date and kiss a girl. Then the talk got around what we thought we were gonna get for Christmas and all the presents we had asked for. Fish told us that he already knew what he was getting because he had found his parents stash of gifts and had opened them. Fin and I were stunned. NO WAY! FISH KNEW WHAT HE WAS GETTING!! He told us of the remote control cars, the “Aladdin” computer toy and a MOTORCYLCE HELMET! We didn’t believe him. We demanded proof! He said “Sure, let’s go to my house and I will show you.”

We set out again. Now Fish lived 7 blocks away and in the thick snow we were traipsing around in we knew it would take some time to get there but we didn’t care. We knew we had plenty of time to get there because Fish’s dad was an over the road truck driver and his mom worked as a waitress with Fin’s mom at a fish house downtown that did not close until 2 am. We headed up to Libel Street tossing the odd snowball or two at each other and marveling at all the Christmas decorations up and down the block. As we passed the Jamrog house we heard loud music coming from the basement and knew that all the Older Kids were partying down there. We could hear Molly Hatchet screaming from the Hi-Fi and you could smell the “Weed” smoke pouring out the back door. Fin made a comment about having the balls to actually smoke some weed. I told him I knew a guy who had some and he lived on the way to Fish’s house. We held a quick consensus and decided we needed to stop by my “Friends” house to score some “SMOKE”.

Once we got to Libel we turned left and headed for Brookridge Street to see Brian. Brian was a new kid in town and he had been trying to fit in with one of the many cliques in the neighborhood but it just hadn’t worked out for him. I had the honor of meeting him a few weeks before up at the ice skating rink while trying out for some Rec League hockey. I didn’t get in and neither did Brian. But we managed to pulverize each other with our sticks for about an hour and bond in a Neanderthal way that most boys do at that age. He invited me over to his house and that is when I discovered that his mother was divorced and worked at one of the many fine Gentlemen’s clubs and also supplemented her income by selling a bit of “Mary-Jane” on the side. He also showed me where she hid the stash and that if I ever needed any to let him know. I told Fish and Fin this quick history and they thought Brian would make a fine addition to our Juvenile Delinquent Gang.

As we approached Brookridge, Fin whipped a snowball right at the back of Fish’s head and scored a direct hit. Fish went down like a sack of bricks. He didn’t even let out a yell. He just fell down like there was no life left in his body. Fin and I were laughing. “Fish, get up ya big pansy.” Fin said. Fish didn’t move. “Fish” I said “C’mon man, get up. He didn’t hit you that hard.” Fish didn’t move.

I knelt down and shook him, “Fish? C’mon. Stop goofing off.” I looked up at Fin. “Man, I think you killed him.”

“Bullshit” Fin said. And knelt down next to Fish and started to roll him over. “Fish? Hey buddy, you ok?” Fin said in a panic. But Fish wasn’t moving. He was limp and in the glow street light he looked pale and sickly.

“What the hell did you hit him with?” I asked

“Just a snowball”

“Dude, did you put a rock in it again? Or roll it in some slush? C’mon Fin spill it. Was it one of your Special snowballs?” I asked in a panic. Because we all knew Fin would occasionally make a slush ball or put a rock in the center of a snowball just for that added jolt of pain and excitement. Sometimes it was funny, this time, not so funny.

“No man! I swear! It was just a plain old snowball!”

I stood up. “Dude, we gotta get someone to help him. He looks real bad.”

“Ugghh.” Was the only sound Fin could make.

I looked down at Fin kneeling next to Fish and Fin was looking at me. “Man, I don’t know what I am gonna do. He’s our friend. I didn’t mean to hurt him. It was all in fun. Right? You believe me don’t you Skip? He can’t be hurt.” Fin looked almost as bad as Fish did. I could see the tears welling up in his eyes and the desperation pouring off of him like foul smelling cancer was making me sick. I glanced over at Fish and then back to Fin. “He will be ok. We just have to get some help. I will run home and get one of my sisters and call an ambulance. You stay here with him.” I said and I turned to leave.

“AAAAAAAEEEIEIIIEIIEIIEIEIEIEIIEEEEEE!” I heard a scream.

I turned back around and I saw that Fish was sitting on top of Fin jamming fistfuls of snow into Fin’s face and screaming “FACEWASHTIME!!!! YOU GONNA GET CLEAN NOW!!!” Fish was laughing and Fin was trying to protect himself and trying to defend himself against the now clearly alive Fish.

“Get off of me you ASSHOLE!” Fin was screaming.

All I could do was laugh. I fell down in a snow bank I was laughing so hard. “Get Him! Wash his face GOOD!” I screamed.

Fin started bucking like a wild horse and eventually Fish rolled off of him laughing so hard he was crying. “FUCK YOU! FISH!” Fin yelled. “You scared the shit out of me. We thought you were dead.”

“That’ll teach you to pull a Jap move like that.” Fish said through tears of laughter.

Fin sat there in the snow bank with his knees up next to his chest and his arms wrapped around his knees. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckitty fuck fuck.” Was all he managed to say and then started to laugh again.

We sat there for another ten minutes laughing at each other and the prank that Fish had pulled. The clear night’s air and the crispness of our breath creating smoke tendrils that rose up into the night’s sky like ghosts of our laughter and companionship that we had created in those heated moments of youth. Soon, it started to snow again and we were getting cold and wet. We decided to forgo going to Brian’s house that night in favor of the promise to enjoy Fish’s new remote control cars and the warmth of his basement.

We had many adventures us three and eventually we did add Brian to our Gang of Miscreants but like all things from our youth they pass on into our vault banks of memories to be drawn up at times when you least expect them. Hopefully one day I will have the time to sit down and make another withdrawal of the times we spent together running the wild streets of Green Bay.

Hopefully.

Revenge of the Water Heater

Last week our water heater went out and I replaced the Thermo-Coupler and fixed it. Yay for me and my mechanical expertise.

Now, today our water heater is not working again. Ok, that is a slight exaggeration. It is sort of working. You see, while all of us were going about our daily lives, doing our jobs, tucking our kids in at night and kissing their foreheads and ensuring the safety and security of our prosperity, other folks were doing their jobs as well. In my case, the City of P-Town, not the place in Rhode Island, had decided it would be a good idea to replace all the light poles and power lines entering and departing my neighborhood. Which is good. It keeps the old ones from blowing down during a hurricane and taking out all the power in the old homestead all at once.

Unfortunately for me and my fellow citizens one of the light poles was right next to the main gas line that goes into our "Hood" and when the workers dug a hole as they have I am sure thousands of times before, they broke the line. Which basically meant all gas to my block and the surrounding blocks had their gas turned off. No stoves, no hot water and in some cases no heat or air conditioning. Hello 1930's America!!!

Now, when I got home there was a little yellow scrap of paper hanging on the door letting me know all this information. Given, it was a bit more abbreviated than what I just wrote but I am sure you understand my plight. Also, on this wonderfully informative slip of paper was a contact information and calming verbiage stating that all would be taken care of as soon as we called the 800 number on the bottom of the notice. Unfortunately one of the numbers of was missing and I had to do a bit more than just an Internet search to find the right series of digits to find a Live, Breathing, Talking, Sentient Human-Being. When I did I found the lady to be quite helpful and friendly. She informed me that a technician would be in my neighborhood most of the day and that he would be happy to turn my gas on and check for any leaks within the house that may have occurred during the shutdown.

Enter L.T., no not the running back from NFL fame, OK, sort of, this guy was more like the Original LT, you know the one who broke all sorts of NFL Line Backer records, not to mention one particular irritating quarterbacks leg. Now, I am not saying this guy was LT but he could have been his brother. Nice guy too. I hope that if any of you suffer a similar fate in the gas line supply system of your abode you get blessed with a affable technician like I did. He immediately got the gas back on and checked for leaks.

The stove and oven checked out just fine and dandy, the hot water heater on the other hand had some minor issues. What issues? Oh, nothing major, a minor gas leak which LT fixed quiet easily and with little effort. Then he discovered there was a an oxygen sensor malfunction that did not allow the gas flow to be regulated properly. Guess what I need a new burner unit. So I suppose it was not the Therm-Coupler after all. But who really is to say? Not me that's for sure. So, now I get to call another 800 number and hopefully I will get a real live human on the line to ship me out the proper part and I will have hot water indefinitely.

Yup, just another fun filled day in "Normal" life.