Gotta Be Moving On

Well, it happened.

And I have no one to blame but myself.

But for now, whatamiproducing.blogspot.com is being suspended.

I have every intention of starting up somewhere else, because I do enjoy writing, and having 3 other people in the world read it. And I do understand that a blog is a public forum.

But, because there is now a 4th person reading this, a person I’ve spent years trying to stay one step ahead of, I’m moving.

To my blog friends, I’ll email you a new location soon.

To the rest of you, sorry I can’t hang around.

JM

Crabs

My friends live right on the beach, on the west coast of Okinawa. All around the clock there are SCUBA divers in the water out front, checking out a reef and the very cool fish and other water creatures that live in it (around it, under it, I don’t know).

At low tide, the shoreline reveals lots of tidal pools. There’s volcanic rock, covered with seaweed, and then these big puddles of seawater, filled with that same cool oceanic life. Only now it’s accessible to those of us in sandals rather than people with gear strapped to their bodies.

I went wading out yesterday and saw blue fish (not bluefish), starfish, sea cucumbers, and a blowfish that was right out of Finding Nemo.

It’s also a treasure trove of great shells.

I picked up a couple, peered inside, and saw they were still the homes of crabs or gooey things that live in shells, so I tossed those back.

Then I picked up a perfect spiral, with bright red streaks on it, swirling up to a sharp point. It was a keeper. I looked inside, didn’t see anything curled up in it, so I stuck it in my pocket and continued wading.

I got back inside an hour or so later, and put the shell on my dresser to dry out.

We went off to dinner, walked around one of the towns a bit, and got home a few hours later.

I went in my room, and the first thing I noticed was my shell, on the floor, a good 3 yards from the dresser. I seemed unlikely that I had knocked it that far.

My suspicions were confirmed when I picked it up.

This was not your sweet little elementary school hermit crab inside. It was a long hairy legged, tarantula looking, angry crustacean, wondering why it wasn’t in its warm puddle of seawater.

I tried to scare it back into its shell. It was too pissed to be scared.

I retired from baseball this year. I couldn’t hit a 26-year-old’s slider anymore. I can still field and throw.

And I threw the shell through the living room door, across the street, over the beach, and right back into the China Sea.

I have no doubt the thing was fine. The nasty monsters always survive.

So Much To Learn

Did you know there are more than 1800 varieties of pineapples?




That as just one of the things I learned today at Pineapple Park near the city of Nago on Okinawa. It’s not as big as Disney, but boy are they able to pack in a lot of fun in just a little space.

The experience starts in a pineapple-shaped golf cart, and that’s where you feel the true magic of it all.

The cart drives itself!

It may be the power of pineapples that propels it, but somehow, the cart knows where to turn, when to stop and just the right speed at which to travel.

This part of the visit lasts about 10 minutes. Then, before you now it, you’re in the pineapple wine tasting room. Sweet, dry, and dessert are the three main types, and you’re allowed as much as you want, in thimble sized portions.

Honestly, it’s not all that bad. I wouldn’t pull out a bottle for a dinner party, but considering it’s from pineapples, it’s quite drinkable.

Then there’s the foodmart, but it’s not just straight-off-the-plant pineapples, there’s pineapple cake, pineapple jewelry, pineapple soap (I swear), and this horrific pineapple gel stuff.

And they also had sugar cane.

Oh… I also learned that pineapple has enzymes that help digest meat.

Which is good, because last night’s Japanese barbeque had a little extra something with it. We either ate nuggets of chicken cartilage or pig knuckles. We couldn’t tell and there was a major language gap. Whatever it was, it tasted ok, but calling it chewy would be an understatement. In fact, I could still be gnawing on it tonight if I wanted.

A little extra pineapple in my stomach will be a big help.

Snack Time

I know… I’ve been here for 4 days and I haven’t written a thing. Take that as a good sign.

This first part of the trip is in Okinawa, where my college roommate and his wife live.

So far I’ve eaten a lot of cool food, and only once have I had something gross.

I’m willing to try most things, so last night at the minimart, I grabbed a bag of these things that looked like green stars. They felt like they’d have a bit of crunch to them.

We were pretty sure, although not positive, that we hadn’t grabbed a bag of cat food, so as we walked up the street and opened the bag, we decided we’d just pop a couple in our mouths.

Again, realizing we could have some sort of exotic pet food in our hands, we looked closely at the locals, to see if they were watching us in horror, or laughing their asses off at the stupid Americans who were about to eat Kibbles 'N' Bits.

Not seeing that, we each took a bite.

It’s interesting how the brain works when it comes to identifying tastes. When you bite into a piece of fish, even if you don’t know what kind of fish it is, you’re prepared for a fishy flavor. When it’s a fruit, your tongue is prepared for fruit.

We didn’t know what to expect, and it took several seconds to identify the flavor, and to determine that we really didn’t like it.

They sort of tasted like cheese puffs, with a sugary coating. The consistency was of old meringue. There was also a buttery feel. And maybe a hint of mint.

The rest of the bag is in the glove compartment. I figure if my hosts ever get stuck in the wilderness and need some food to survive, they’ll eat the leftovers.

The Longest Day

I have just landed in Tokyo... not really sure what day it is. And I still have another 3 hour flight to Okinawa.

Here's what I wrote while airborne:

According to my little readout, I am at 34,000 feet, cruising at a ground speed just below 500 miles per hour, over the frozen tundra of Alberta, Canada.

My day started at 5am, eastern time. They say get to the airport two hours early for international flights. I’m sure they were doing something important behind the scenes, but I was through security and at gate D11 by 6:10, for an 8:02 flight.

As I wrote earlier, I do enjoy flying. I do not enjoy the complete lack of customer care that comes from the airlines. And it’s not just the big things, like lost luggage, sitting on the tarmac for hours on end, being shuffled from one gate to another. It’s the little things too.

Flight number one for me today was on United Airlines to Chicago. We boarded, and it wasn’t even close to being a full plane. As the flight attendants did their preflight scurrying, I asked one if I could move up to the emergency exit row. I have long legs, and I’m more than willing to be the man who kicks people in the ass if their too slow jumping through the emergency hatch while the cabin is on fire.

The guy told me no, no I couldn’t. It seems that United now charges people extra to sit in that row. I understand that there is a premium economy class on United. Pay $40 extra and you get a few extra inches for your legs. They have a special section.

I didn’t know that the cheap mother fuckers were now charging people to sit by the escape hatch. I thought the responsibility of all of those lives would weigh heavily enough on my shoulders, and that would be the burden I’d carry in return for not having my knees forced back into my chin.

Update… we just cranked up the speed a notch… we’re doing 512mph.

Now I am on flight two. Air Nippon from Chicago to Tokyo.

On this one I am in the exit row and it’s glorious. I couldn’t touch the wall in front of me if I wanted to. No one else is in my row, I have my own little video screen on the arm of my chair. It’s great.

I just finished Casino Royale. I think he’s the coolest Bond in a long time. Some of the movie was a little, well, not so good, but whatever. I’m on a 13 hour flight. There will come a point where I’ll be willing to watch Barney episodes.

I was saddened a bit by the meal we just had. No airline sushi. It was sweet and sour fish, noodles, salad and a cup of Haagen Daz. Yes, I know, it’s better than anything US Airways will ever serve, but come on, I want maki.

The Wild Blue Yonder

I'm two days away from my great Japanese voyage.

(Burglars take note, I may be out of town for two weeks, but I'm leaving hungry poisonous snakes in my apartment, so don't even think about breaking in.)

I'm a good packer, for the most part. It's a little easier for this trip, because for the first week I'll be staying with friends, and I'm pretty sure they have laundry.

What always stumps me is the carry-on luggage plan. My airline will allow one carry-on bag, but I think that really means two bags, one bag bag and one purse-like personal carrying system. Because the flight takes a really long time, I need to pack entertainment, a clean shirt, a toothbrush, and more entertainment.

I am not rich enough for first or business class, but I did get an emergency exit row. Should we make a rough landing in the Pacific, I'll be the guy standing on the wing, heroically leading my fellow passengers into the shark infested waters. It's a small price to pay for a few extra inches of leg room.

I actually like flying, and this airline even serves sushi on board. Airline sushi is something I must try.

There are two minor questions I have with the carrier, however. For undisclosed reasons, the FBI raided their American offices a month ago. I'd like to know why. If there's an issue with the flight attendants serving airline sushi past its expiration date, I'd like a heads up before I order the blowfish. Also, a few mechanics were accused of making repairs on things they weren't actually qualified to fix. Again, if the plane's rice steamer was worked on by someone who is not certified, I want a warning.

I checked the flight route. It's fascinating. I'd always sort of thought we'd fly west over the U.S., head out over the Pacific, see Hawaii out the window and hit Japan that way. Apparently not. We'll head over Canada, Alaska and skirt the east coast of Russia, heading southwest to Japan.

Still, looking out the window won't keep me entertained for all of the 13 airborne hours.

So I'll have crossword puzzles, books, magazines, IPod, audio books, and my laptop.

What else do I need?

No, that's not rhetorical, seriously, what else do I need? Any suggestions?

Look Out For The Other Guy

This just in from the Associated Press:

LOS ANGELES (AP) - Film director Robert Clark, best known for the beloved holiday classic "A Christmas Story," and his son were killed Wednesday in a car wreck, the filmmaker's assistant and police said... The driver of the other car was under the influence of alcohol and was driving without a license.

I am a good driver. I have good reflexes and pretty good instincts, and have been able to avoid disaster a couple of times. But as the above story shows, there are times when the best drivers in the world are flat out screwed by people who are assholes and don't give a fuck about anyone else on the road.

Last week, my friend Mike, whom you may remember from the near-bar-fight story, was sitting at a red light. He had come to a full stop, and was just waiting for the light to change.

That's when he heard the squealing brakes behind him.

The impact sent his car flying into the intersection, only luck kept him from getting hit by any oncoming cars. It took a moment for him to gather his wits, but when all was said and done, he was ok, sore, but not seriously injured.

I turns out a cop witnessed the whole thing, and upon questioning, figured out the other driver was hammered. But he was also fine. The drunk drivers always are.

It's the people they crash into who are fucked.

Mike's car, a paid off, but fairly old Audi, is a total loss as far as the insurance company is concerned. To him, it was as good as new. Now he has to buy a new one, with about $10,000 in insurance money. Sure, he could sue the guy who hit him, but there's no point. The other guy did have insurance, but the bare bones kind for people who only want the least amount of legal coverage. Her won't have any money of his own.

So Mike is screwed. Alive, and aware of how much worse it could have been, but screwed nonetheless.

Robert Clark and his son Ariel aren't so lucky. 24-year-old Hector Velazquez-Nava, the driver of the other car, is alive.

Like I said, it's the people they crash into who are fucked.

Play Ball!

Opening day is all about hope, rebirth, a new chance for greatness.

Reverse play-by-play.
* * *
And just like that, the fresh start comes to a crashing halt.

I will, as always, back my Fightin' Phils right down to the last pitch of the season, but, alas, they've already chipped away another little bit of me.

*

That fucker Renteria. Phils down by 2 in the 10th.

*

Extra innings, my friends.

*

Crud... 0 and 2 pitch to Renteria, right into the centerfield bushes. And we're tied. Myers is going to the showers.

*

Ooops... Braves drop a ball, and suddenly we're ahead.

*

Bang! The game is tied at 2!

*

Rollins puts it into the rightfield stands... 2-1

*

After 4, Atlanta 2-Phillies 0... Howard is screwed on a bad call

*

At the end of 2, 0-0

*

Phillies vs. Braves 1:05pm

We're Number 1!

We did it!

Congratulations to the people of my fine city. Last night we reached an exciting milestone: 100 murders!

And it’s not even April yet.

It took a lot for us to get here, of course.

When I was a young boy, playing on the streets here, there would be the occasional fight. We did it the sissy way, though. There would be punching, wrestling, yelling and then someone would run home in tears.

Then the next day, all would be forgotten. We’d play in the streets again, and the two people who had been slapping each other would most likely be on the same team, no memory of why there were fisticuffs the day before.

And then in school, boy did we drop the ball. Sometimes guys would “challenge” each other to a fight in the playground. The other guys would gather around and watch, take sides, make lunchroom bets on who was going to win.

As we got older, those classroom disagreements would lead to payback in the athletic arenas. There would be a little extra oomph during tackling drills in football, maybe a dirty shot on the ice in hockey, and then, like with the street fights, all would be forgiven later in the locker room.

Nowadays though, people get right to the point.

Forget the fighting. Let’s just kill each other.

What, in my day, would be an animated argument, now turns into a shoot out.

In school, kids don’t resort to more tradition means of anger management, they pop a cap into each others asses.

And then there are the witnesses, the honorable witnesses, the ones who wouldn’t dare damage their own or anyone else’s street cred.

No snitchen’!

Amen, that’s the way to keep our murderous streak alive.

It takes a lot for a city with the 6th largest population in the country to have more murders than any other American city. New York has more than 4 times as many people as this city, but we’re kicking their asses! L.A., Chicago, you call yourselves cities? HAH. I spit on your lack of deadly violence.

We’re so good at it, we share the fun with the uninvolved. Kids, mothers, little old ladies, don’t worry, just because you aren’t packing heat, selling drugs, or giving dirty looks, you still have a good chance of taking part in the killing, of course, by being on the receiving end.

See, we’re generous here. Our shooters aren’t stingy with bullets or aim, they fire enough lead to share.

Fuck you Detroit, our people love the killin’ and we’re making sure we’re the best.

Delicious

Apparently there are some workplace scenes that, while normal here in a television newsroom, aren't so commonplace in the rest of the world.

Last night I was reading the details of Anna Nicole's autopsy out loud.

It included lines like: "The anus is unremarkable," "the vagina is normally wrinkled and contains no foreign matter," and "there is a deep seated abscess on the left buttock with a creamy, yellow-green pus."

This was our dinner break entertainment. I was eating a sandwich, one coworker, P, was standing behind me slurping down a bowl of salty miso soup, and another, W, was chomping on sushi.

"The implants were surrounded by a thick connective tissue with a clear thick yellow fluid."

Slurp.

"The abdominal cavity is lined with glistening serosa."

Chomp.

There was a visitor who watched us from across the room with a look of true disgust on her face.

What do the rest of you talk about when you eat?

Turns Out My Male Friends Can Read

I got an email from a good college friend today. He'd seen my blog, and said he liked it. And that surprised me.

As I thought about why, I realized that it's because I never expected any male friends of mine to read it. Especially this guy, who, and I now know he'll read this, was the man's man of all of my friends in school. He actually carried the title of "Cool Guy" and it wasn't a joke.

Anytime I ever felt an overwhelming wave of political correctness in school, I went to see him.

If I was trying to make decisions between whether to do the responsible thing or the thing that would make my college years more memorable, I'd ask myself, what would BF do?

Years later, when I went running into a bomb shelter in Kuwait because of an incoming missile in the first weeks of the war, I actually thought, BF would think this was cool.


So, now I think I need to throw in some more macho stuff in here for a few days.

Instead of talking about the day I spent in the park with the woman, talk about how hot she is, and what we did when we weren't at the park.

Less about the little boys I supervised at day camp, more about the romping in the pool with the girls counselors during the overnights.

Not so much about how I think I'm fat, more about playing hardball in a men's baseball league, on a team where my nickname is "The White Guy," because I'm the only one, or how the picture in my profile is me serving time in the penalty box after some sort of heinous attack on an opponent in high school hockey.

Ok boys, I'm ready to be a man.

112 Across

A couple of times over the past two weeks I’ve mentioned the woman with whom I’m smitten. Henceforth, I shall refer to her as WWWIS.

I have hesitated to say much about her, because I really seem to like her but I’m afraid that if I put it out there I’ll jinx it. Also because I haven’t really gotten to the point of putting everything “out there.”

But for the love of all things good, I have to write about what could be the perfect dating day.

We slept in a bit (yes, we’re to the point of sleeping in together). Once we got vertical, we went out to brunch and along the way grabbed the Times. WWWIS has never done the Sunday puzzle, so we started it together, while eating at a neighborhood joint.

After filling ourselves with great Sunday brunch food, we went to the park, where we worked on the puzzle a little more.

Then we walked and walked around town before grabbing a movie. We watched Borat together and laughed our asses off. We were hungry, and went to another neighborhood eatery, had pizza and filled in a few more squares.

Finally, we had to go our separate ways for the day.

Look, I know this may seem a little dull on paper. It wasn’t dull to live through. It was just delightful.

And what am I supposed to think when one of the puzzle clues called for a 4-letter word for “Totally Nuts”

Gaga!

Yes, I think I am.

Fun With Scanners

When I was forced to replace my recently deceased iBook last week, I figured, what the hell. I was already dropping a little more money than I had budgeted for the first quarter of the year; why not spend a little more.

So I bought a scanner.

I’ve been thinking about a scanner for a long time. Photography has always been the closest thing to art that I have been interested in. As a result, I have boxes and boxes of photos, going back to the mid 70s, when I was just a little boy with a Polaroid One-Step.

The pictures are slowly fading, so to save the literal snapshots of my life, I want to digitize them. Then, instead of boxes and boxes of fading pictures, I’ll have disks and disks of data that will sit on a shelf. I guess that’s better.

Anyway, won’t it be fun to make this a community project!

So we begin with this photo that I found in the 1986 box. 1986 as in 21 years ago.



I was about to go into my junior year in high school, and I worked as a camp counselor for the group of 4-year-old boys.

As I look at this picture, several significant things pop out.

First, I am having trouble realizing that these 4-year-olds are now in their mid-20s. I work with people in their mid-20s. The woman with whom I am smitten is mid-20s. These guys cannot be mid-20s. It hurts to think that way.

Also, there’s me in the picture. I’m the tall guy in the back. In addition to 21 years ago, this is 35 pounds ago. How did skinny teenage John turn into middle aged John?

Finally, there’s the hot pink shirt I’m wearing. Please remember, the mid 80s were when Miami Vice was popular. If Don Johnson could wear hot pink, I could too. That’s all we’ll say about that.

I remember a few of the names. In the front row on the left was Timmy Woehr. A couple over from him was Zach Carson. In the middle is a kid named Sam something, a down the row a bit is Steven D’Amico and I think the kid at the end was named Andrew. In front of me are Ted Bullock and Eyal Ebel.

I have no idea what happened to any of these kids. I’m pretty sure they’re really still in middle school somewhere. There’s no way they can be any older than that.

I'll have more trips down memory lane soon... if my ego can take it.

Can't We All Just Ride Along?

I swear, I'm going to run one of them over, and when I do, the motorists of this city will erect a statue in my honor.

I love biking, really. I have a bicycle, it's fun, it gets me from point A to point B. Yay. And there are lots of fine bike riders around here who wear their helmets, stay in the biking lane (and there are plenty of biking lanes here), stop at lights, and signal their turns.

Then there are the shitty bikers. Some are the Don't-Give-A-Crap bike messengers, some think they're making a save-the-environment political statement, and some are just assholes.

They're all the ones I'm going to grind into the pavement.

There is one group that makes a bold demonstration of power once a month or so, at midnight. They ride in a massive pack through the biggest streets and they go out of their way to be obstructive. Last week, one of the dirty little pinheads chose to hold onto my bumper for a bit. No way dude, I'm not going to help you be a dick. So I "tapped" my brakes. He didn't fall, but he was outraged by my show of defiance to his show of defiance.

He and some of his pals slowed down in front of me, keeping me at a crawl for the rest of my ride home.

Whatever.

Like I said, they're really bold making this mass street blockage at midnight. It was me and 100 smelly, greasy hippie wannabees. I could have wiped a lot of them out with one quick movement of the gas pedal. I chose not to... that night. I'd like to see them try it when there are more than just two cars on the streets. Let's see their bravery while the union guys here are driving to their jobs.

Today on my way to work, a grungy dirt bike rider was weaving in and out of traffic. The car in front of me came to a red light. In this city, red means stop, and the driver did just that.

The sudden decision to follow, not just the law, but one of society's most basic norms, came as a total shock to Quicksilver (click on the link for the obscure Kevin Bacon biking reference). He slammed into the back of the car, and then went ballistic.

For the next several blocks he went out of his way to slow traffic and to get within yelling range of the driver, all the while, his baggy pants flapping in the wind.

Bikers of the world, what's your problem? You ride, I drive. I give you your space, why won't you give me and the other cars ours?

Anyway, if you find a pile of spokes, gears and chains, surrounding lots of cruddy helmetless bikers, you'll know where to find me, I'll be posing for my statue.

A Substitute Entry

I sort of want to write about this woman with whom I'm completely smitten, but I'm not quite there yet... there being that place where I can write everything about myself here where everyone can read it.

And because I'm not there, I know I have at times been a little boring.

Just wait until you read this one. It's about parking cars!

_____________________________________

There was a scene in the opening montage of a 70s cop drama that showed a dozen or so cruisers pulling out of the police station lot, in perfect unison.

Here at my workplace the parking lot here is divided into two levels. The bottom is covered, and those 12 spots go to the highest level bosses here. The rest of us park up top, in the open. Normally, that's fine, maybe even better, because our spots are actually closer to the door.

But, on a night like this, being outside sucks.

Our city is being pelted by little ice balls. So far there are several inches on the ground, and on our cars. It's just crappy.

At 6:30, when the daysiders left, they all had a good 15 minutes of scraping before they could actually pull out of the lot. From the windows, it sort of looked like the string section of a symphony, as they all moved their scrapers back and forth, back and forth.

We weren't just watching for fun, though. We were waiting for the all clear, and shortly after 7pm, we got it.

There are about 15 of us who work here in the evening. And while there are fewer than 15 official spots under the cover in our lot, we are a resourceful bunch. We also look out for each other.

One by one, like the open of that TV show, we pulled out of the upper lot and filled into the lower area. The lines dividing the spaces are unimportant. What matters is that we make room for as many cars as possible. Since we had only been at work for a few hours so far, we didn't have as much scraping to do, so we spent a few minutes clearing the icy crap, and then our cars got to spend the rest of the evening in executive luxury.

It's a bonding experience.

RIP

My Apple IBook took a tumble off my bed last night.

It was pronounced dead early this afternoon.

The IBook is survived by a 1-month-old backup.

It was 2-and-a-half-years-old.

Autumn

Out in the countryside of New Hampshire, on a cool fall Friday night many years ago, a group of early 20-somethings met for the first time as adults. They were all starting their lives as grown-ups, but they weren't quite ready, not just yet.

It was the eve of a huge Halloween party on a family farm. Hundreds of people were expected to roll in on Saturday for a bonfire costume bash.

But this was the night before. The people who were there that night were the core friends. And at the core of the core were young women who had known each other since their lower school days. They all brought the men in their lives, men they deemed worthy of a weekend trip in the wilderness.

On that night before the party, there would be perhaps 20 people, the girls who had known each other forever, and the boys who might be in their lives forever.

Two by two, the couples arrived, threw on their fleece jackets and grabbed spots around the fire.

The women picked up where they’d left off years before.

The men cautiously made friends with the other men. They drank beer, talked about their jobs, how they met their girlfriends, how they were selected to make the journey.

When the breeze would pick up, the women would snuggle up next to the men, together they would get warm in the glow of the fire, under their blankets.

The hostess gathered up the crowd after a bit and took everyone on a tour of the farm and into the newly built barn.

Someone found a soccer ball and then the children came out to play.

Teams were formed, positions taken, and a newly invented game of barn-broomball began. Some people used brooms like hockey sticks, some people actually found hockey sticks, one person used an old gardening tool, and some just used their feet.

It seemed like the game lasted forever. The music of the Samples played in the background, barely audible over the sounds of grown-ups yelling like kids on the playground.

No one hit their heads on the low hanging beams, no one was hurt when they ran into each other, or barn equipment.

They kind of kept score, but didn’t really.

And then, after a while, in the wee hours of that perfect fall night, the final buzzer rang. It may have been when the CD player stopped playing, it may have been that the players just knew it was time to call it a night.

The game was not one that could ever be replayed, its joy came from its sudden creation and its sudden end. For the core group, as much fun as the costume party would be the next night, Friday night would be the part of the weekend they would remember forever.

In the years since, time and distance have taken their tolls on the friendships, but those friendships remained. There were other great gatherings, although the same men weren’t always there. Still, on that night the men who met for the first time knew they would always remember each other, call each other friends.

That game, the cool New England breeze, the sounds of the Samples echoing through a big wooden barn left them all with a special bond, one of childlike fun, deep love and affection and the memory of the party before the party, the gathering of the core.

One last night when the kids could leave their newly found adulthood behind and play in the barn.

Funky Sh*t Going Down In The City

I haven't been in a bar fight in 16 years. And back then, it always involved pulling a fraternity mate out of a fracas with a guy from the fraternity across the street (those Fiji's were always asking for a beating).

Through my 20s one of my personal beliefs was that there was no good that could come from a bar fight. Drunks like to break bottles, throw chairs and sometimes someone has a knife.

Once, when an old west saloon-style brawl broke out at a local pub, I stood in one corner, drinking my beer and gnawing on popcorn, while my best friend positioned himself behind a couple of young ladies in the opposite corner. We cheared as furniture flew, ducked under flying bottles, and waved goodbye to the brawlers as the cops cleared the place out.

That said, if I or my friends are in peril, I won't hide.

So this weekend, I was with five friends, two men and three women at an upscale bar/restaurant. Let's just call it S&W.

A man walked in off the street and he looked a litle bedraggled. Wearing an old army jacket, his eyes were glassy, he was scary looking.

As he walked by my group, he rubbed up against two of the women and lingered, just a second too long. My friend Mike positioned himself between the ladies and the weirdo and the guy reluctantly walked away, looking back over his shoulder.

It seems Mike's steely glare wasn't appreciated and the crazy man spun around and came back. He got into Mike's face and said "You giving me looks?"

Our friend Bruce wasn't paying any attention, but I will say this about him, when the shit goes down, I want him on my side. I calmly said his name and gave him the non-verbal "check this out."

Next thing I knew, all three of us were up, chests puffed out, fists clenched, telling the eerie stranger to keep on walking.

It turns out we all agreed that this man had a weapon, a knife probably, and the last thing we wanted was to see it. So we put up a strong unified front, but spoke in peaceful terms: "No trouble here... keep on walking... we're all friends..." But, if I do say so myself, I think we were a pretty intimidating trio.

The guy sauntered off and left the bar, and the three of us felt very macho. We'd stood tall and protected our women-folk.

We were also very relieved, it had been a long time since any of our creeky bones had been involved in a brouhaha.

Apparently, I made an extra special impression on the place. A short time later, another man walked over and asked me if I wanted to get a bottle of champagne with him.

I was a little confused by the proposition, until I realized it was a proposition. He wasn't my type, because he was a he, but it was still nice to know that my powerful muscles got someone's attention.

I'm So Smart!

A few weeks ago I was taking a long drive and threw my Violent Femmes greatest hits disk into the CD player. It’s one of those CDs that I’ve had for a while but hadn’t listened to in ages.

The song Gone Daddy Gone came on and I rocked out. It’s a great tune. For the love of Pete… it has a xylophone (or one of those things that sounds and looks like a xylophone but is called something else that I can’t remember from 3rd grade music). Whatever, you can’t go wrong with a punk song with a xylophone solo in it.

So as I listened over and over I thought, “damn… what a shame that a great song like this is long forgotten. Too bad no one has ever remade it.”

Then this week I saw an ad for Chris Rock’s new movie, and immediately recognized the song in it as Gone Daddy Gone.

Ha Ha!

I know good music. I thought it and someone listened to my brain and they did it! I’m a genius.

Tonight I looked it up on ITunes. I didn’t expect to find it, it’s a new release, of course, and I’m so forward thinking, so ahead of the curve, I knew I’d probably have to wait a few weeks.

But, lo and behold, it came up…

And then I realized the truth of my genius. It isn’t really so genius.

Gnarls Barkley did it…

On their St. Elsewhere CD…

That came out last year.

OK, that’s not so dumb.

Except I have that CD.

And I’ve listened to it several times.

And that means I’ve listened to the new version of the song…

Several times.

So, not only has it been redone… but I’ve had the redone version myself for 8 months.

I pretend I know a lot about music. I don’t know sh*t… even about the stuff I have.


That’s alright… I have another big idea… and no one has thought of this: What if Sting got together with his old band mates and did a Police reunion tour?

If only people could read my brilliant musical mind!

The Great Battle of 1984

It started, as so many incidents do, with a piece of bologna.

It was also a perfect storm.

On one front were the students.

It was May of 1984. We were about to move out of 8th grade and middle school. It was the eve of exams and we were 88 13-year-olds who were under a lot of pressure.

On the other front were the teachers, or in this case a lack of them.

There was a scheduling screw-up of mammoth proportions. Somehow, that day, during 8th grade lunch, there was not a single faculty member in the cafeteria.

At my private school, the cafeteria was in its own building, on the opposite side of campus from the main academic buildings. When the fronts collided, adult intervention was a long way away.

In the 23 years since, many have claimed to have fired the first shot (or tossed the bologna in this case).

I was actually at ground zero. While I won’t use full names, I will say that it was MR who first decided to see if he could throw his slice of lunchmeat like a Frisbee.

The next few seconds went by in slow motion.

SP launched a spoonful of green jello.

CJ threw a handful of Shrimpies.

Then came the official call, the one every teenager dreams of, the one that had never been yelled in our school’s lunchroom.

“Foodfiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight!”

Immediately the lunch ladies went into a full retreat, pulling down gates and locking themselves in the kitchen. They may have picked up a phone and called for help, but they knew help wasn’t coming soon.

For some food fighters that day, it was a matter of brawn. They threw whatever they could get their hands on. They overturned tables for shelter. They aimed to kill.

For others, it was all about creativity. Shrimpies throw well, but they don't make much of an impact. Dunk those same Shrimpies in cocktail sauce and you have a weapon that leaves a mark.

For still others, stealth attacks were the name of the game. The same MR who first threw the bologna never saw SF creep up behind him with a full bowl of minestrone soup.

TM fell into the brute force category. He was a catcher on the baseball team, and even in 8th grade he could gun a base runner down at 2nd. I don’t remember why I turned when I did… a shouted warning, a spotted movement of shadow, maybe just The Force. What I saw was his arm coming down and a Red Delicious heading for my head. Remember that scene from the Matrix? I invented it to escape a flying fruit.

Mr. A was a math teacher and the varsity football coach. He had no idea what he was walking into. Actually, it could have been a lot worse for everyone, but someone was watching for trouble through the window.

“Teacher! Teacher! Teacher!” It sounded like a siren. Just as fast as it started, it stopped. Those of us lucky enough to be on the east side of the building had an escape route. The fire exit let out on the opposite side of the cafeteria from the door Mr. A was about to walk through. An entire building stood between us and identification.

Some others found the secret tunnel that led to the auditorium. It was a daring choice since there was a risk of entrapment. Had there been a drama class in session, those kids would have been screwed.

And then there were the ones who were left behind. They were the real heroes. While they had to clean and serve detentions, not one pointed fingers, no one named names. But they also got to see Mr. A's expression when he walked in. For years they said it was worth it.

Some of us got away clean. Others didn’t.

MR was one of the first out of the fire exit, but the blazer covered with minestrone was a dead giveaway.

There were a lot of khaki pants with cocktail sauce splatter patterns sitting in the front office.

In the years that followed, we remembered fondly of that spring day, and there were a few attempts to relive the moment.

But you can't remake a classic.

And you can't get into the school cafeteria without a teacher.