Next of Kin - A Family Rivalry

Ever since I was a small child my cousin Adam and I have seen each other as adversaries. Not enemies. Not nemesi. But always aware of the others achievements and always trying to stay one step ahead.

We are virtually identical. Some have even mistaken us for brothers. Both standing over six feet, two inches (I'm a few inches taller) and weighing around one hundred seventy pounds (he's a few pounds heavier), the only real distinction is that Adam has sandy blonde hair, whereas a dark brown mop covers my head.

We both played the trombone in high school and college. Both sing and act. Both attended the same college, and now live in the same city. And the rivalry continues.


Sitting at the Kids Table

My grandparents came into town this week, so those of us who were able met at my aunt Monica's for dinner. Just as in the elementary days at family holidays, the kids were banished to a flimsy card table in the room adjacent to the dining room. Only this time the people filling the seats at the kids table ranged in age from twenty three to twenty six. As Adam and I sat there, I with my wife, he with his girlfriend, the age old picking and teasing came out in full force. When he asserted that he could beat me up, the gauntlet had been thrown. I scoffed a retort,

"You cannot. I'm made of Titanium." This was my go to response to his overinflated feather-ruffling. He couldn't argue. It was true.

"So! Kelsey and I have been working out. How much do you weigh?"

"One hundred sixty two pounds." I'd weighed myself that morning.

"Ha! Monica? Do you have a scale?"

I scarfed another hamburger while the scale was retrieved.

A few moments later we were standing in front of an electric bathroom scale in the kitchen. I stepped on the white surface first. The digital readout paused a moment, then reported,

"168.5 lbs."

I knew the number was inflated by my full stomach and my fully clothed condition. I normally stepped on the scale right before showering.

Adam stepped onto the scale and waited for a response. the digits read,

"175 lbs."

Foiled! We returned to the gray card table, Adam glib with his small victory. As we pushed the sparse remains of our delicious dinner around our plates, my grandfather bellowed across the room,

"Adam! Chris! You boys listen up. Your mom was..."

"Grandpa, we don't have the same mom." Adam interjected wryly.

"Oh that's right. you don't. Thank God for that." He went on to recount a story of my grandmother and a speeding ticket. He often refers to grandma as mom. An acceptable mistake for a man approaching seventy six years of life on this earth. But his misnomer left me thinking -- what if Adam and I had been brothers?

He'd be Ken. I'd be Ryu. It'd be epic. For those of you who don't get that reference, go look up Street Fighter on Wikipedia.

And one of us would be dead by now. That's for sure.

The Gaunlet Thrown

So Adam wanted to boast about the six and one half pounds that he had over me. That's fine. I'll succumb to the challenge, and I'll succeed. I've made it my earnest goal to outweigh my blonde brother by my twenty sixth birthday. That gives me two and one half months to pack on the pounds, bulk up, and show my dear cousin that he's got a force to recon with.

Anyone got any tips for bulking up? I sense an inspirational montage coming up...

Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting

I almost got into a fight this weekend. I say almost with just a hint of sadness.

To put it more accurately, the fight almost got into me.

On Saturday, Annie and I drove out to Kewanee, Illinois to have dinner and drinks with our friends Brian and Kimi. The town of Kewanee is not more than a blip on the radar, known for a monstrous furniture store that encompasses close to half of the downtown. It also has the only remaining Pabst Blue Ribbon franchised bar in the United States. So when we want something cool to drink, we go to Cerno's.

Walking into Cerno's, there is a frosted filigree with the letters PBR ornately emblazoned on the door of glass and heavy, dark wood. To your left is an old bank tellers booth where, in the early days of its existence, the tavern offered a check cashing service to its thirsty patrons. The floor below is a mosaic of stone squares and fifteen feet above it is a baroque display of tin and dusty chandeliers.

The bar is guarded by massive mahogany pillars, each bearing a carved angel. The cherubim wield trumpets, heralding the cold, refreshing beer that won the blue ribbon at the 1893 Worlds Fair. Back lit logos depicting the Pabst hop leaf remind you of the beer you should be drinking.

Things Were Going So Well

The night was going swimmingly, with vigorous chatter about weddings, school, work, and various other endeavors. Annie and Kimi were on one side of the booth, Brian and I on the other, shouting above the din that enveloped our ears. The bar was not full, but it had a half dozen imbibing patrons.

Brian was recounting a story he'd recently heard of Kurt Cobain's early years when Annie grabbed my arm from across the table.

“Chris. Chris! CHRIS!” Her voice escalated as her eyes widened, looking over my shoulder at some unknown danger. As I turned to see what had riled her, a tornado of women came plowing through the narrow bar, aimed directly at our booth.

The four women were drunkenly attempting to exact vengeance for some undisclosed insult by pulling hair, shoving bodies, and slapping whatever they could make contact with. They bounced through the aisle like a pinball of human destruction, inadvertently dragging others into their fray. By the time the brawl reached our unassuming location, there were four or five other people involved.

As I laid eyes on this mess of arms, hair, and insults, I realized that while these men and women were passionately defending themselves and their loved ones, they were not willing to put down their beverages. This made for a messy component of the quarrel that had found itself to our doorstep. Bottles of domestic beer spewed forth like dark amber volcanoes. Their golden, foamy magma erupted across the tumultuous terrain of the bar, falling to rest on our table, our pizza, and yes, on all of us. Unsure of how to proceed, Brian and I stood there, passively ensuring that no physical presence enter our little corner of the bar.

With the beer bottles emptied on our table, someone decided that the only use left for these glass carafes was for bludgeoning. In a high, overarm swing, we saw a man slam the base of a beer bottle into the back of another man's skull. With such force, I'd imagine that one or the other would have caved, but neither object seemed phased. Another bottle flew through the air, landing at my feet in tiny pieces. Imagining the damage that could be done with the dagger-like shards that remained, I slid the broken pieces under the booth and hoped no one would notice. The storm of drunken emotion seemed stalled in front of our table when the Kewanee police force arrived.

That's Our Cue, Exit Stage Left

Judging by the size of the town, I would argue that the majority of the police officers of the self appointed “Hog Capital of the World” were present. They began breaking up the fight, questioning people, and issuing citations. At that point, we decided to take our leave of our beloved Cerno's.

As we walked out, Brian leaned over and said,

“You always say you want to get into a fight. That was your chance.” A true statement, but I think I made the right choice. There were only a few probable outcomes to me joining that fray, and none looked promising:

1. I beat up a girl. I look like a jackass who hits women because he can't take on a real man. Some beefcake seeks retribution and I end up dying in the hog capital of the world.
2. I get my cranium crushed by a bottle of crappy, St. Louis brewed beer. At least if I am going to die at the hands of a beer, I want it to be a good one.
3. I survive the fray, only to be arrested for disturbing the peace, assault, or improper use of beer bottles. I spend a night in the Kewanee clink, next to a man charged with defacing a giant swine statue.

No matter how you cut it, this was not the fight I wanted to partake in. Not that I can really determine what an ideal fight would look like. I'd probably have ten of my biggest and closest friends with me, and I'd be hiding behind them yelling things like,

“Yeah, kick his ass!”

“Take that, punk!”

“That'll teach you!”

Until that day, I'll continue standing strong, ready to defend my family and friends from assault, but none-to-eager to dive into fisticuffs.

Hope on a Rope - Scouting out of a Tight Spot

Everything I need to know, I learned from Boy Scouts.

Many people mock the short sleeved, tan shirt with red epaulets. They scoff at olive shorts that land mid-thigh on pasty skin and smirk at knee-high wool socks and hiking boots. But when it comes down to it, the skills and life lessons I gained in the fifteen years as a scout have indelibly left their mark on who I am. The Boy Scouts of America has not only helped me learn to be brave, clean, and reverent, it's also started me on a road toward renaissance status.

Rope and a Tarp Can Solve Any Problem

Two things you become well acquainted with as a Boy scout are the versatile uses of a six foot cord of nylon rope and the endless utility of a blue tarpaulin.

At first, a young scout may sigh at the endless practice of looping, swooping, standing lines, and hitches that are required to advance the ranks of Tenderfoot, First Class, and Life Scout, but knot work has proven to be invaluable, both in outdoors situations and in more mundane activities. As a set designer, My first impulse when working with rigging and lines is to consider what knot would be ideal for the job. What is being held? Who is potentially walking underneath, depending on the knot I tie to keep them safe?

This may seem inconsequential, but a few years ago, my cousins and I took a canoe trip down the Des Moines River. Adam, Casey, Zach and I brought no tents, no air mattresses. With our tarps, paddles, and rope, we fashioned lean-to shelters to provide some cover from the elements. The tarps protected our gear while on the river, both from the water and the heat of the July sun. And when, on the last day of our trip, we came up against a ferocious headwind and a gaggle of angry pelicans, the rope and tarp saved the day.

We had floated by the light of a full moon the night before. With four of us in two canoes, we lashed our vessels together and took turns sleeping in the boat, two of us keeping on course at any given time. It was like Huck Finn and Jim, drifting by the glimmer of an overflowing lunar ambiance. With an extra eight hours on the river, we made excellent time, and ended up at the head of Lake Red Rock, a man-made reservoir that ends with a monstrous hydro-electric dam. It was perfect! We'd make it to the mouth of the dam, where we'd pull out that night and then call our rides to retrieve us.

Avian Bird -- Shoo!

What we did not anticipate was the egregious head wind that pummeled our small, fiberglass boats. Zach and I paddled with great muster, battling against frothy waves that threatened to overtake our canoes. As we got into the middle of the lake, we began drifting nearer to a cadre of huge white birds. We'd seen them from afar as we entered the reservoir, and, despite our intentions of circumnavigation, were pushed into the tempestuous flock with little consideration to the safety of our boats or bodies. We drifted closer, trying to inconspicuously paddle downstream. We could hear the cacophonous chatter of the giant white birds – at first a small din, then increasing to a deafening roar as they realized that there was a non-avian presence in their esoteric meeting.

In the Belly of the Beast

We hoped the birds might join us in our attempt to avoid collision. Instead, they looked at us as if we were barefoot hobo's at the Ritz Carlton. Finally, we could evade no longer. As we braced for what was sure to be an unpleasant confrontation, the pelicans opted for an aerial maneuver. They took to the heavens, revealing wings that dwarfed our vessel and shrouded our view of the baking sun. The ebony pin-feathers launched the beautiful birds over our heads, showering us with the water that adamantly clung to their underbellies. Terrified, yet in complete awe, my Zach and I covered our heads and peeked through our arms like children at the Circus. As quickly as they'd begun, the entire community had uprooted and found a new place on the lake several hundred yards away. With that, we decided that it was time to get to shore and reconsider our options for Red Rock dominance.

Zach and I met up with Casey and Adam on the north shore of the lake around noon. The shoreline of Lake Red Rock is not comprised of the supple sand that made up our previous landings. It is exactly as it sounds – small red shale rocks, like opaque shards of glass, dumped onto the earth, searing from prolonged exposure to the hot Iowa sun. There were no trees. There was nothing but some dead wood and scrub brush to huddle against. And it was hot.

We quickly scampered up the bank to a flat area, approximately ten feet square. We hoisted up a tarp with our paddles and a few pieces of driftwood, and glumly ate cold Ramen and Spaghetti-O's. Then we conferred.

“How the Hell do you get out of this shit-hole of a lake?”

We weighed the options. Finally, we decided that there was no way to go downstream. Not today. We'd passed a small makeshift boat drop at the head of the lake, but paddling upriver? This seemed equally folly. We sat in silence, the tarpaulin whipping in the gales that beat down on us.

Adam & I, Manning the Poop Deck

That was it! If the wind can exert that force on a tarp, surely it can push us upstream to the load-in! With Adam's basic nautical know-how, we lashed the canoes together and attached a tarp to the bows. Using long, forked poles we'd found, we hoisted the tarp high and caught the wind. Using the little rope we had left, we angled the tarp to and fro to catch the changing gusts. Sure enough, we were sailing!

In no time, we'd reached the ramp, pulled our canoes onto the shore, and dropped our dilapidated carcasses on the gravel.

Without our trusty ropes and tarps, we'd still be in that bog of a lake, eating pelican and skipping rocks.

Finding Inspiration in Altercation

I have now started four different posts in the last week. They are all in various forms of completed, yet I am completely incapable of finishing a single one.

This may be writers-block. It may be Seasonal Affect Syndrome. It may be my own mental degradation leading to an eventual psychotic break down where I lose all ability to think function or use punctuation whatsoever

But I doubt it.

This is a basic mind-over-matter situation. Or is it matter-over-mind? My mind is saying,

“No! Your ideas suck. Your abilities suck, Your ability to drive and automobile sucks!”

Even when the universe is against me, I am determined to prove myself wrong.

When the World is Against You, Drive a Big Truck

I got home today a little before 6pm. Annie had class late, so I was excited to change out of my dress digs, leash up Ellie for a brisk walk in the frigid night air, and then settle in for some literary grunt work. I pulled into the lot, trekked up to my second level apartment, and expected to find a little dog, anxiously awaiting my arrival in the kitchen, where I'd left her. I fumbled for the keys, turned the lock, and flipped the switch in the kitchen. As I looked around the room, I found my dog nowhere in sight. I did, however, find the barricade blocking her into the kitchen pushed open. My dog was laying comfortably on my bed.

What a rascal.

After our walk, I decided that it was time for a new gate for the kitchen doorway. I loaded the pooch into the truck, and headed to the store. What was supposed to be a quick trip to Walmart ended with no baby gate. They had ultra-amazing, state-of-the-art, laser-sighted baby gates. They had extra-tall gates for your behemoth babies. But they had no regular old safety gates – the wooden kind that slides back and forth along the notched wood and inevitably gets stuck two inches short of the length you want it to be. So I left Walmart empty handed.

On the way back to the apartment, I pondered where else I might get a gate. I could always go across town to the other Walmart, or Target or Kmart or any of the other department stores in town. As I was weighing those options, I saw Walgreens up ahead. Now there's a novel idea. Walgreens has a bit of everything. They may just have what I'm looking for.

I pulled in and put the truck in park. Commanding Ellie to stay, I dismounted, and headed into the store. Moments later, I exited, sans gate. I clambered back into the truck, resolving to find my dog gate another day. I had writing to do, so I needed to get home. I glanced over my shoulder and began backing out of the spot, cranking the steering wheel to the right. Suddenly I felt a jolt through my system as the truck impacted something behind me. I slammed on the brake, threw the transmission into park, and jumped out to assess the situation.

As I rounded the back of the truck, I was met by a frantic woman pacing back and forth as if bouncing off of imaginary walls.

“I can't believe this! I can't believe this! I know I should have gotten the rental insurance. My car's in the shop, so this is a rental...It's not even mine! I can't believe this!”

As I looked the two cars over, I found the truck unscathed. The back bumper of the woman's Dodge Charger however, did not fare so well. The rear driver side corner was shattered where it had made contact with the truck. She'd pulled her car back into the space she was back from, allowing room to walk between the vehicles. In an effort to calm her down, I said,

“Well, it seems as though we both are at fault here...seeming as though we were both backing out at the same time. There isn't any damage on my vehicle, so I'll leave it up to you – do you want to call the police, exchange insurance?”

She opted for all of the above. I called 911 and explained the situation. Then we sat in our vehicles and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I could feel my writing time disappearing as I sat, listening to underground musicians on Iowa Public Radio. The longer I waited, the more irritated I got. Irritated at the police for their tardiness. Irritated at the woman for not seeing my truck. Irritated at the dog for breaking out of the kitchen, prompting this whole endeavor in the first place. I was just irritated in general.

To Swerve and Protect

Finally the police arrived. I hopped out and approached the car. Upon request, I began proffering up the details of the incident. As I began explaining how we were both backing up and collided, the woman from the car piped up,

“Hey wait a second. No, no, no. That ain't how it happened.” I was just parked here, and he backed into me. I hadn't moved from my spot.”

The irritation that had been simmering in me flashed into unbridled aggression as I processed what she was attempting. The two sides of my brain grappled between my desire to explode in a flourish of epithets about the low-lifed, underhanded, nefarious nature of her snake like words and the more logical side that realized a public outburst such as the one I wanted to perform would lead to more serious police involvement. In the split second I took to weigh my options, the public servant in the car before me interjected,

“It doesn't matter what happened. Your on private property, so we will not be determining fault. Give me your insurance cards and licenses and I'll issue an exchange of information report.”

I was relieved that the officer had stepped in to quell the brewing discourse. But I was also terribly agog. I could not believe that this woman was trying to pin this thing on me! I went back to my car and sat, broiling in the frigid night air. I cranked the heater of the truck, and stared at the red car in my rear-view mirror. As I sat and went over the details again and again in my mind, I began analyzing the scene from every angle, every perspective. I would be damned if this woman tries to throw me under the bus on this. It was her fault for not looking before backing out of the space!

Eventually the officer came to my truck, gave me the report, and wished me luck with the insurance companies.

I finally staggered into my apartment around 8:30pm. After three wasted hours of gate-less gallivanting, I'd made it home. I didn't even feel like writing. Curse you, powers that be! You've sucked all the desire to create from my body! I just wanted to watch syndicated Seinfeld while dissolving into my lumpy futon. Against all desire, I opened my computer.

As I sat, exhausted, staring at the blank screen of my computer, I tried to write. I opened all of the half written blogs that had been swirling around my brain. I typed a word here, a paragraph there. But I had nothing. The universe had sucked me into another doldrum of creative drought. But then I realized it. In stopping me from writing, the universe failed to realize that it'd given me something better. It gave me fodder.

It was hard at first, convincing my brain, rusted with exhaustion, to began cranking again. But as I slogged through the first few paragraphs, it became easier. And soon enough, I'd retold the whole story.

So next time you get writers-block, for God's sake, stay in the house. It's much safer that way.

Confrontation Consternation

Confrontation – A face to face meeting. The clashing of forces or ideas.

Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Growing up, I watched my father haggle with car dealers. I watched my mother engage door-to-door encyclopedia salesmen. I saw my grandfathers verbally combat arrogant landowners and indignant baler-buyers. And as I ventured out from behind the towering figures of my elder role models, I began to realize how important it was to stand strong against opposition. Whether that consternation is caused by a smarmy salesman, licentious landlord, or berating boss, I've found it eternally difficult to absorb the abuse, stand my ground and give a concise, firm response that protects and respects.

Baler Bullshit

There seems to be a vengeful pleasure found in some established professionals. As if some form of initiation into the adult cohorts, these seasons businessmen and women take pride in looking down their noses at perfectly competent, incredibly intelligent, young professionals. This phenomenon first happened to me in college, working on my grandfathers farm.

A commercial hay man, probably in his mid-forties, brought in his Model XL baler for repairs. The baler looked like crap. It was full of dents, had rust showing around the edges, and was in general disrepair. I took notes on the main concerns for the equipment, and was preparing the paperwork, when the man made some snide remark about my hair.

To provide some context, when I was working for my grandfather, I had stick-straight hair that fell to my shoulders. I generally kept it under a hat and behind my ears, out of sight and mind. This man decided that, rather than assuming that I was a competent employee, it'd be better to make assumptions about my masculinity, penchant for illicit drug use, and overall lack of usefulness, based on my hair.

I brushed off the mans jeers, and cordially sent him on his way, pretending that his remarks didn't bother me.

That day still brings back feelings of rage. I wanted to sock the man in the jaw. I wanted to do what I'd seen my grandfather do many times before to this same farmer – I wanted to zing him with a one liner that would put him in his place and shut him up tighter than an oil drum. But instead, I balked. I clenched my jaw, and let him pummel me with insults that I'd done nothing to deserve.

At what age do you gain the ability to retort? At what level can you successfully return the bullshit and retain your dignity in these situations? A few years later, I had a memorable experience that spoke to this question.

Finding Problems and Fixing Problems

I worked at a Boy Scout camp for a month or two every summer. These are mostly happy memories of swimming, boating, building monstrous fires and playing pranks on others. But one memory stands out as not so positive.

I was a member of an honor society through the boy scouts and, after a few years of membership, had climbed the ranks and was one of the leaders of the organization. Along with that privilege came great responsibility. With that responsibility came a great potential to screw up, and one week, that is what I did.

We were at an event that was far removed from the main part of camp, at a ceremony for the new members. It was a fairly stressful day, with little sleep and a lot of work, and I had neglected to bring a crucial element for the ceremony. Upon realizing this, one of the adult volunteers pulled me aside, mid-ceremony, and began berating me about this slip up. This man was a well-liked member of the organization, fairly influential, and physically commanding to boot. He towered over me, his temples turning crimson with fury.

I listened to the man go on about my incompetency and inabilities for about a minute, all the while glancing back at the ceremony still in progress. Finally, I had to stop the abuse. I looked the red faced buffoon in the eyes and said,

“Listen, I realize that I screwed this up. I am going to go fix the problem, so that we can have a successful event. When we get back to camp, you can rip me a new asshole. Until then, don't talk to me.”

With that, I stormed off, bent on fixing the error and completing the ceremony. We did and, as I recall, I didn't hear anymore on the subject. In retrospect, I did exactly what I'd seen my father and grandfathers do before me. But not all of my attempts at confrontation have been so positive.

Once You Pop, You Can't Stop

Flash back to the man with the hay baler. We repaired the dilapidated machine, replace the abused parts, and gave it the best face-lift possible. The work was not egregious, but the man had definitely not followed the common sense recommendations for caring for a machine worth more than the truck he drove.

He came by the shop about a week after the initial confrontation. I steeled my nerves as I saw the portly, pompous man approach the shop. He strode into the office and declared,

“So, ya figger out what was wrong with that damned piece of machinery, hippie?”

Without blinking an eye, I glanced up from the manual I was consulting on the desk, adjusted my hat, and just as I'd heard my grandfather retort, I flung the following phrase from the corner of my mouth:

“You ever heard of operator error?”

The man turned seven shades of red under his tanned skin. At first I thought he would jump over the counter and wring my neck. Then I realized that he physically could not jump over the counter, so I was probably safe.

I thought that, as in the movies, my amazing one-liner would shut him up like a steel trap. Unfortunately, my insolence only embroiled his rage, and made his comments worse. After that one moment of shining glory, I closed back up, shut my mouth, and went back to deflecting his jeers with a closed mouth and a determined look.

Lesson learned? Confrontation is more than having the gall to take the petulant route. It's taking that course, then stick with it till the end.

Sales = Constant Confrontation

In my current job, I deal with confrontation every day. It seems that when a 25 year old walks in the door to talk to you about your marketing strategies, it is open season. People have a difficult time looking past my age and my job title to see that I am a person trying to not only further the newspaper I work for, but also help their business succeed.

I walked into a restaurant a few weeks ago, and was met by a business owner who was not only crass, but referred to me by the disdain laden moniker,

“salesman”

The man thought he was a big deal. He dressed snappy, sported designer glasses, and had obviously colored hair. He owned a swanky establishment and knew that, while I was on his turf, I was his mouse. I don't know why, but on that day, I wasn't in the mood to put my head down and wade through the guff. I listened to him talk about his business for a while, listened to his gripes about my paper, and gave him some poignant rebuttals to the scoffs and dismissals he threw my way. At the end of the meeting, he grinned and asked me a heavily baited question,

“So what's your favorite restaurant, salesman?”

I looked him square in his smug grin, and told him about Antonella's Trattoria, a little whole in the wall Italian joint in Davenport. I raved about the authenticity, the service, and the wine. I gave him the address and told him to check it out. It was priceless to watch his face go from smarm to startled in seconds. He actually believed that I would kiss his ass and say that I love his restaurant! As I walked to the door, I turned back to Mr. Bag-o-chips and said,

“You want a salesman response to that question? Ask me again after you advertise with us for awhile. I'll probably say the same thing.”

Just because I sell things, doesn't mean I have no integrity.

So maybe I am learning a little about handling confrontation. I still have times when I fold like a bad poker hand, but I also am getting better at playing it cool, choosing my words, and standing up for myself. I guess it comes with age. To quote a song that resonates with this issue nicely,

"Stand your ground, don't back down, it's the only way to win. And when life throws a punch, son, you've got to take it on the chin."

William Elliot Whitmore, Take it on the Chin

Skating, Unscathed

My wife is the eldest of thirty cousins. They range in age from 26 (my wife) to 10 months old – 10 boys, 20 girls. The day after Christmas, as a gift to both the cousins and their parents, the older cousins took all the rug-rats rollerskating. Five of us above the age of 20, corralling upwards of 25 pipsqueaks on wheels. If this sounds like the recipe for disaster, you're probably right. But if you've ever met my wife, you know she's crazy enough to handle it.

As we entered the sheet metaled warehouse that was the roller rink, I was bombarded by early 90's decor – space scenes muraled across the walls, jagged graffiti-esque lines scralling around the rink with chasing lights causing seizures among the faint of heart. An overwhelming odor of shoe spray and floor wax flooded my nostrils. The din of children laughing, wheels rolling on hard wood, and teen pop Bieber trash overwhelmed my ear drums. As my senses adjusted to this new reality, I began to acclimate myself to the new surroundings. I laced up my tan skates, tottered to the edge of the rink like an unsteady child on newly discovered legs, and circumnavigated a few tentative laps.

As I gained confidence in my wheeled abilities, I began to notice the other skaters around me. Although I hadn't seen these people before, I realized that at every roller skating event I'd been to in the last decade, I'd seen the same archetypal skating entities:

Roller Derby Girl

Jet black skates with canary yellow wheels. Striped stockings that end just below the knee, covering her muscular calves. Black hot pants that read,

“SLAMMAHGIRL”. Black jersey and matching wrist-guards. Braided brown hair tied neatly behind her head, and a determined grimace that makes my nervous to be skating on the same hemisphere as the determined amazon.

She skates with a force that commands any novice roller to be wary of he elbows and hip checks.

Grandpa Glider

Do you remember the days when a teenaged couple would go out for sodas at the local diner after a rousing skate at the local rink? White-walled tires and Brilcreem were the standard in the 50's and, for some, it hasn't changed. There is something endearing about the 60 year old couples who are still using the skates from their courting days.

Besides the gray hair and arthritic hands, you can spot these soda shop skaters by their classic skating style. They dreamily glide 'round the rink, kicking their heels back while neatly tucking one hand behind their back. An heir of propriety exudes from a geriatric skater – evidence that they were taught to skate in an age when skating was an art form akin to dancing a waltz or a polka, and it is their sole duty to perpetuate this graceful sport with all their might.


Hockey Star

This guy is the masculine foil to the Roller derby Girl. He's in workout pants and a hoodie, brought his own roller blades, and means business. If the rink would let him, he would bring his hockey stick on the floor to let everyone know he means business.

Although this Gretzky skater is more comfortable on the ice, he can skill cream any amateur on wheels that dares to stumble in his path. As rink rules frown on the practice of flattening children during an open skate, he generally prefers to leap over fallen munchkins, which is preferable, although still frightening for all parties involved.

The speed skate is Mr. NHL's forte. He barrels round the wood floor with the tenacity of a bull, trying desperately to prove the masculinity of his wheels against the more effeminate skaters who might defame his blades.

Homo-Erotic Inline Speed Skaters

As a bi-annual, recreational skater, you are bound to get lapped. It is just something to come to terms with. When you are passed by a skater, you think little of it. But when you are passed by two skaters, crouched for speed and wind resistance, the latter awkwardly grasping the gluteus of the former, you cannot help but feel emasculated.

Completely in-sync, these men share the intense love of skating with the Hockey Star and Roller Derby Girl, but do so in a more graceful manner. Each is in-tune with the movements of the other, arms and legs swinging in unison, focused on navigating the screaming teens and ancient lovers to beat their last time trial. Even their breathing is in-sync as they stream through the masses with balletic grace.

They are so focused on their craft that not even the scathing disdain that comes from the Hockey hooligans can break their composure.

Solo Skater Savant

His custom skates are freshly polished. His wrist-guards are monogrammed. He skates to the beat of a very different drum.

Objectively this man is an incredibly talented skater. Throughout the skate he practices tricks and gyrations that would make figure skaters cringe, seemingly for his own amusement. I would dare say that he was completely unaware of any other presence on the wood that day.

Contorting your legs into bizarre, cartoonish poses while on wheels may be a sign of virility and Casanova-ism in some cultures, but I do not believe that is the case in my own. It was sometimes painful to watch this character groove, slightly off-tempo, to the top 40 musical stylings that blared throughout the rink. I can only imagine that this was a cardio regimen prescribed by some new aged yogi, as he at times resembled Shiva the Destroyer, his arms and legs undulating in a meditative fury.

Passive-Aggressive Teen Bieber Freaks

One of these teenie boppers was having a birthday and, to her chagrin, her mom picked Orbitz Skating Emporium as the destination for her party. Mortified, she refuses to show that she is having fun. With her cadre of screaming airheads, she screams the immortal lyrics of Ke$ha and Justin Bieber at the top of her off-key lungs.

The unfortunate side affect of these squealing ladies, beyond my loss of hearing, was that, in the throes of musical ecstasy, they lost all ability to navigate. These pre-teens morphed from shrill 90 pound drama factories to a herd of moaning water buffalo, incapable of breaking away from the pop-drunk group think that drove them around the rink with ferocious blindness. Woe to the unaware skater who happens in front of this all-consuming ball of prepubescent power.


Uber-Serious Skate Ref

Every sport has rules. Every rule needs enforced. Every enforcer needs a weapon. Give a 22 year old a whistle, striped shirt, and a pair of used skates, and watch them turn from Playstation addict to keystone cop in two seconds flat.

It doesn't matter if you are wearing plastic Playskool skates or professional skate stars, you will receive equal wrath from these skating sheriffs. Do not stop. Do not push. Do not have fun on this roller rink.

There is a certain level of animosity that exudes from these enforcers towards any of the more proficient skaters in the rink. It is as if the ref's are once great remnants of Derby teams, Hockey squads, or speed skating duo's that, due to injury, have become washed up and are forced to relive their glory days as haggard sentries of the rink. They look down their noses at those of us who just skate for fun, and envy the wheeler who can still stand among the pro's. They are trapped in a purgatory of failure and disdain, bearing the scarlet letter of a referee's stripe. The whistle is a badge of honor. Their wheels will forever spin to serve.

Skate On, Sundance

I left that roller rink shorter, sorer, and more aware of a bizarre niche of American culture: the 21^st century roller rink. I will still enjoy a good skate now-and-again, but will exercise caution the next time I venture onto that wooden floor. It's a vicious world that shows no mercy on the faint of heart.

Skate with caution.

The Babies are Coming for You

This is a warning going out to anyone who considers themselves cool, tough, or bad-ass:

Beware of babies. They will destroy you.

Babies are dangerous. They appear to be cute, affectionate, little balls of fat and love, then when you've opened yourself up to them, they strike, like little toothless vipers. If you review the basic truths about babies, you will see that they are in fact out to take over the world:

Parasites

Baby, preparing to rip me to shreds

The definition of a parasite, according to www.dictionary.com, is an organism that lives on or in another organism, known as the host, from the body of which it obtains nutriment. That sound familiar, mommies of the world? I know that many women love to play host, throwing dinner parties and Bat Mitzvahs, but this is a host of a different color. Not only do they embed themselves into a woman's stomach, leaching nutrients, but they also practice mind control. Take this, from fledgling blogger Julia Jones:

“During early pregnancy, I noticed something different about myself.  I felt dumber.  Yes.  Dumber.  Like, all of a sudden, my brain decided to take a hike and I couldn't remember jack squat anymore.  I would be carrying on a typical conversation with my husband, stop talking mid sentence, stare at him blankly, then say, "I'm sorry, what was I talking about?"

Spacecadetjones.blogspot.com

This is an obvious case of mental manipulation on the part of this fetal fury that has since extricated itself from my friend Julia, only to wreak havoc on the known world. But this is not where the terror ends. Once they are out, it only gets worse.

Snuggle Vomiting

For those of you not familiar with the snuggle vomit, it is when a little “person” gets all cute, nuzzles against your neck like a cuddly baby raccoon, then proceeds to blow breast-fed chunks down your collar.

How can such a small entity create such a large amount of projectile waste? It ruins your shirt, dribbles down your neck, encrusts your hair, and cakes into in your ear. Then, when you think the little Linda Blair prodigy cannot spit up any further, they dig deep within themselves to call forth even greater reverse digestion fury.

This tactic is an obvious plot to destroy nice clothing, break our steely resolve, and make us go deaf in one ear from the venomous puke that spews forth from all infant infidels.

Baby Bums

Trendsetter

I was in a restaurant yesterday, and I saw a baby dressed in a pair of sweatpants, a shirt that he'd obviously thrown up on, an oversized jean jacket, and a stocking cap. He looked as if he'd been sleeping on the streets of Boston, living off of cheap whiskey and guilt. If I'd come into that restaurant dressed in such a fashion, unable to walk, drooling all over myself and babbling like a deranged person, they'd have thrown me out like Sunday's garbage. But this little man gets the royal treatment. They are allowed to gallivant around, naked as jaybirds, flaunting their superior status and lowering our expectations of what is appropriate and decent. These babies' flagrant disregard for human dignity and decency is leading to a moral failure among all humans. People say,

“If a baby's doing it, why can't I? I think these sweatpants go well with my jean jacket.”

They don't. This is another example of how baby mind control is sabotaging this great nation. Soon we'll all be wandering around in pajamas and puke stained t-shirts. Those of us who haven't already.

Steal Our Good American Jobs

Did you know that 100% of hard working, red blooded, American jobs are being taken by babies? It's true. The person working next to you, was a baby, not long ago. They are very methodical, very sly, but they are all vying for our honest wages. Soon, all of us will be living in abject poverty while babies are raking in our millions.

Maybe you don't believe it. Perhaps you think,

“It'll never happen to me. I have a specific skill set that a baby could never learn. They don't even have efficient use of their opposable thumbs!”

Babies are fiercely intelligent. They learn at rates much higher than that of a regular human being. Within the first few years, they learn to walk, talk, and destroy entire houses with vomit, poop, and toys. After that, they are coming for your job.

Reproduction Mind Control

mind control laser locked on - set to stun

The most feared thing about babies is there ability to gain mind control of any woman between 18 and 40 and turn them into babbling baby wanting slaves. They dote. They coo. They speak in bizarre languages that only babies and other women can understand. Worst of all, they get these women to buy pregnancy magazines.

This would be horrific enough by itself, if not for the fact that, once they've been brainwashed by these adorable little munchkins of doom, they begin pressuring their male counterparts. They hint, they wish, they blatantly ask when they get to start “a family of their own”. If they are above 35, they reference a mysterious biological clock and its incessant time keeping accuracy.

Keep women away from babies. As the host, a women is useless to the mind powers of our fetal foes. Take my wife for instance - she loves babies so much that she actually agreed to watch and assist a baby's birth. The whole thing. And she doesn't even like the sight of blood.

If a woman you know has any of the above symptoms, it's too late for you. Suck it up and make the best of your inevitable baby making.

You may think it is too late to save the world from this barrage of bouncing babies. But with the proper protection, you can avoid this horrible fate and remain the tough, cool, man you claim to be.

Just don't be surprised if, one day, you wake up and realize that your leather jacket is in mothballs, your motorcycle is in pieces, and your wife is in labor with your third child. It's then that you'll realize that they've gotten to you too.

Consider yourself warned.

I'm watching you...

If you haven't figured out by now, this posting is completely satirical. Please do not assume that any of the above statement are in earnest, or any way heartfelt.

Thanks to Monica Overberg and Gabe Goodrick for allowing the use their son Kurtis, in the above images.

(The babies made me write this disclaimer. Save yourself...)

Hot Pants and Common Sense

When I walk my dog in the mornings, I rarely see anyone on the street. I pass the brick cottages and neatly trimmed lawns, my inquisitive Basset Hound in one hand, a plastic bag in the other. We groggily meander the sidewalks, sniffing out traces of squirrels and Taco Bell wrappers. Listening to podcasts syndicated by NPR and PRI, Ellie and I generally make our way back to the apartment without event or catastrophe. Sometimes we encounter a stray dog, or a child on their way to school, but for the most part, it's a solitary journey.

This morning we saw something worth noting. It wasn't so much an interaction as it was an observation.

The White Mile

As we exited the apartment this morning, we were blasted with the frigid wind of a twelve degree morning. Ellie dove into the snow, painting it yellow as she relieved herself in the three inch powder. We then began our trot down the alley. Our brisk pace was not due to any love of exercise, but rather a vain effort to keep from turning into living ice sculptures.

As we rounded the block, we jogged passed a house that bore signs of life. On the concrete front porch of this two story brick bungalow, a frumpy woman, mid 30's, stood stoically smoking a cigarette. The woman in and of herself was not notable, except for her chosen wardrobe.

Hot Pants in the Cold Dawn

Her head was covered with a nondescript stocking cap ('toque' for the Canadians out there – or a 'tousle cap' if you are my grandfather). She had an over-sized ski jacket on that draped over her shoulders and overshadowed her mittened hands as she tried to light the tobacco stick. 

The woman's bottom half was clad in naught but a pair of hot pants. No shoes, socks, or slippers. No jeans, snow-pants, or even pajama bottoms. It seems that her need to ingest that cigarette had overwhelmed her desire to avoid frostbite. I realize addictions are fierce masters, but I always assumed that pants would take priority over cigarettes. 

I may be making some unfair assumptions. Perhaps, in her rush to put on her down jacket, gloves, and a hat, she left her pants sitting on the floor of her bedroom. Right next to her common sense.

I tried not to stare as she stood in the doorway of her home, seemingly not phased by the biting cold. Hopefully the incredulous look on my face was masked by my own teeth chattering.

The Smoker's Motto

I've always wondered about a smokers audacious ability to brave any weather for their cigarette. It's commendable, that dedication. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these smokers from the swift completion of their addicted vices.

But most have the common sense to put on pants before inhaling. Maybe there should be a new warning on cigarette cartons:

Warning: Excessive use of cigarettes can lead to a loss of common sense. And pants. It will eventually lead to frostbite, if the first two conditions occur.

This is what I take away from this naked legged woman from the suburban tundra:

Smoke. Smoke whatever you want. Smoke wherever you want. Smoke with whomever you want. Just wear pants while doing it. For everyone's sake.

According to his Inability

Have you ever met someone who is not cut out for their job?

The newspaper I work for hired a new advertising account executive – fancy wording for an ad salesman. This is what I do. I sell advertising or, as I like to put it, I help businesses find clients and patrons through effective marketing. It can be a difficult job at times, but rewarding. I have learned a great deal through my work in advertising – about businesses, interpersonal communication, and rejection. These lessons have made me a better salesman, community member, and a better person.

The new guy seemed like a good fit for our publication at first. He was young, dressed with a dapper professionalism and a potentially excessive dose of gel to hold his quaff of black hair in place. As I met with the new hire, who we'll call Greg Parker for the sake of this story, I could tell he was enthusiastic about working for the paper. He'd had nominal experience in advertising, selling ads on fund-raising calendars and sports memorabilia for local high schools, and peddling ad spots in Mega Hunter – a recent manifestation of the phone book. He seemed to know some of the basic tenants of sales, had a good attitude, and we needed another sales rep. It was a perfect fit.

The First Day

He arrived at work promptly on his first day at 8:00am. He got to work, familiarizing himself with our management software, his client list, and the basic layout of the office. Having a desk adjacent to that of Mr. Parker, I answered questions, helped him find office supplies as needed, and tried to make him feel at home in his new environs.

“You want any coffee?” I offered as I strolled to the kitchen.

“Nope! I'm an energy drink man!” he replied as he violently shook a water bottle full of chalky, pastel yellow substance.

When I returned from the kitchen, he'd finished half the bottle. He was zoned into creating his email signature with tenacious concentration, so I passed by without a word, returning to my own task list for the day. Before I could get settled in, he poked his head around the divider.

“What do you use for an email signature? I can't figure out what to put in mine.”

I sent him a blank email, showing my signature at the bottom. I tried to refocus on my attention to the impending deadline of the next issue. Soon, Greg appeared at my desk. He had taken a lackadaisical route to my workspace, as if he were on his way back from the fax machine or copier. I find both of these options hard to believe, unless he was copying his newly minted email signature.

“Hey man! Are you into MMA fighting?”

I looked down at my computer screen for a moment, hoping that this question was directed at the wall – a likelier candidate for this question than I. I glanced up. He was still standing over me. Shifting his weight from one leg to the next, as if he wanted to engage in some mixed martial arts there and now.

“Uh, not really. I'm more into...working.”

“Oh, cool!”

He loped back to his desk, resuming whatever task was next on his orientation list. A few moments later, a little box appeared on my screen. Greg had discover Google Chat.

Greg: Where do I find my clients?

Chris: Under “Greg” in the client management program.

Greg: Koolio!!

A bit later, I heard from behind the partition,

“You're going to Paris in June? SWEET!”

Greg had discovered the companies online calendar. And my vacation, evidently.

“You'd better be careful over there man! You know there's a volcano over there? Iceland – or Greenland, I think. I heard Lindsay Lohan might miss her court date because of all the smoke. That's what TMZ's saying.”

“I'll be careful. Thanks for the...advice.”

The First Sale

I did my best to avoid him the rest of the day. He must have fared well enough, because bright and early the next morning, there was Greg, full of vigor and ready to start making sales. He consulted me on a couple clients, then dug in. About 10 am, he made a phone call. After a few minutes of chatter, he hung up.

“I think I might have screwed up.” He said blankly.

“Ok...” I replied, unsure how to respond to such a statement.

“Well, I sold an ad.”

Surprised by the speed of this supposed sale, I went back to check on the terms of this sale. As I reviewed the terms that Greg had agreed to, I realized that while he had sold an ad, he had grossly undercut the bottom line, practically giving away the ad space. I brought this to Greg's attention and told him that he should run any special pricing by the publisher before offering it to the customer.

Properly chagrined, Greg emailed our publisher, explaining what he'd done. Then he left for lunch, which would be followed by a visit to a client. I was having lunch in the office that day, so dug into getting some real work done in Mr. Parker's absence. About an hour later, I got a call from the new sales rep.

“Hey Chris! You at the office?”

“Yeah Greg, whats up?”

“Well, you know how I was heading out to Silvis to see this client? I kind of forgot all my stuff.”

“Do you have anything? Price sheet? Calendar? At least an old copy of the paper?

“Uh...no. I don't think so. Can you bring me my binder?”

“No Greg. I will not bring you your binder! Stop by a restaurant that carries our paper, and at least bring that with you. Talk about marketing strategy, and avoid specific pricing questions.”

The Last Supper

Needless to say, he didn't make the sale. About three hours later, Greg came strolling into the office. He sat down at his desk, rummaged around a bit, and logged onto his email. A few moments passed before I heard an exasperated mutter behind me,

“Gah! What an asshole! I...I gotta get out of here!”

He stormed into the kitchen, then swept by me in a flurry, without a word. The door jangled as it bounced in and out of it's frame, standing ajar in Greg's wake. I looked at Elizabeth, my co-worker in astonishment. She solemnly observed,

“I don't think he's coming back.”

“Why not?”

“He took his nuts!”

The nuts she was referring to were the canned variety, cashews I believe. These were what he'd retrieved from the kitchen. We investigated around his desk for clues into this tempestuous behavior. His email was still up and on it was a reply from our publisher regarding his 'sale' earlier that day. The email was completely professional, albeit reprimanding in nature, but nothing to storm out about.

A few hours later, the publisher returned from his meeting. We explained the situation. At that point our leader made three unsuccessful attempts at contacting Greg Parker. It was clear that the newest addition to our organization was not coming back.

In retrospect, we should have seen the writing on the wall with this guy. But you want to give them the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes though, it's just not meant to be.

I doubt he'll be using us as a reference.