The Unluckiest People

Have you ever known someone who is always complaining about being unlucky? Those people who are always blaming their misfortune on luck? I hate those people. I hate them because it’s an excuse, as if some God of Luck has frowned upon them. The old adage is true, folks – you make your own luck.

Usually.

Because boy, have there been some unlucky people on this planet. Some people just can’t catch a break, man. After some intense research, my crack staff here at Shoe: Untied has come up with our Top 7 Unluckiest People Ever, because five just wouldn’t cover it.

Here ya go . . .

Steven Parent

Never heard of Steven Parent? Steve was a kid just out of high school back in 1969 and one day picked up a hitchhiker named William Garretson. They hit it off and William invited Steven over for a visit. Seems William was a caretaker in Beverly Hills and lived in a cottage behind the main house. Well, Steven took him up on the offer and randomly stopped in one night.

It was August 8th, 1969, and the address was 10050 Cielo Drive, the home of actress Sharon Tate.

If that name doesn’t ring a bell, it should. Because as Steven Parent was leaving his new friend’s house, the Manson Family was pulling in. Steven never made it out of the driveway that night, nor did anyone else in the main house. They were all massacred, and Steven Parent had picked the absolute worst evening to visit a friend – the night the Manson Family came calling.

Factoid: William Garretson went to Lancaster High School here in Ohio and headed west shortly after graduation. 

Pete Best

Children, Pete Best was a drummer for a rock band. That band practiced in his mother’s basement for months. When the band decided to change their hair style, Pete resisted. He preferred his slicked-back ducktail. Pete didn’t hang out with the other three band members much, preferring to go it alone. The female fans loved Pete as well, which rubbed the other band members the wrong way. To top it off he wasn’t a great drummer. Finally, in August Pete was kicked out of the band and replaced by a guy with a funny nickname you may have heard of, Ringo. Five months after that the band came to America and found some success as a group called, you guessed it, The Beatles.

Costis Mitsotakis

Never heard of Costis? Me either, until a few minutes ago. But man was he unlucky.

You see, every Christmas in Spain there’s a huge lottery. One year the tiny village of Sodeto had some serious cause for celebration after all of the 70 households — except for one — pitched in to buy a ticket. Well, they won. This resulted in them getting a share of the monster $950 million first-place prize. Do the math, loyal readers. The residents, mainly farmers and unemployed construction workers, walked away with millions.

Everyone, that is, except one unlucky guy named Costis Mitsotakis. Poor old Costis was the only man in the village who didn’t participate that year. Perhaps he was saving up to buy a new goat or something, one never knows. Anywho, bad stroke of luck right there.

Roy Sullivan

Let me be brief with this one. The odds of being struck by lightning once in your lifetime are roughly 3,000 to 1. Roy Sullivan was a park ranger in Virginia who was struck by lightning 7-times. Being struck seven times has odds of around twenty-two septillion to one. That’s 22,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 to 1. ‘Nuff said.

Note: After getting struck by lightning a couple of times, wouldn’t you, you know, stay inside?

Ann Hodges

One minute Ann Hodges was minding her own business, just taking a nap on her couch in Sylacauga, Alabama. The next she was hit by a freaking meteorite. The offending space rock came crashing through her roof and hit her on the hip. Ann survived and remains the only human in recorded history to be hit by a meteorite. Top that one, suckers.

Tsutomu Yamaguchi

Tsutomu lived in Japan in 1945. He lived in Nagasaki but was on a business trip in Hiroshima on August 6th, when we dropped the first atomic bomb on the city. He miraculously survived, and returned home on August 9th. Well, we all know what happened to Nagasaki on August 9th, right? Yep, we dropped bomb #2. Again, Tsutomu Yamaguchi survived and lived until 2010.

You know, now that I type this I realize that Tsutomu Yamaguchi may actually be one of the luckiest men who ever lived.

Steven Hicks

18-year old Steven Hicks was hitchhiking his was to a Pegasus concert in 1978 just outside Cleveland. He’d heard of the show that day and made a last minute decision to get up there to what I assume was Blossom Music Center and meet some friends. Anyway, soon another 18-year old pulled over and picked him up. They decided to stop at the driver’s house before continuing to the show so they could smoke some weed and have a few beers. Hicks probably thought he was pretty lucky to not only catch a ride but have some booze and marijuana throw in as well. Wrong. He never left the house that day, at least not in one piece. The driver’s name was Jeffrey Dahmer.

So kids, the next time you’re feeling a little sorry for yourself remember these people. At least you weren’t pulling out of a driveway just as the Manson family was pulling in, out hitchhiking and getting picked up by Jeffrey Dahmer, or you know, hit by lightning or a meteor or an atomic bomb (twice) or something.

So count your blessings. It could be much worse.

Here Are Rock ‘n’ Roll’s 10 Most Famous Urban Legends

Paul McCartney Died In The 60s

Well, if it’s true whoever replaced him was awfully damn talented. Click below to examine the whole Paul Is Dead phenomenon:

Turn Me On Dead Man: The Great Paul McCartney Death Hoax

Stevie Wonder Isn’t Blind

Oh yeah, this one has been around for years, and noted level head Shaquille O’Neal swears it’s true. What say you? Is it true that Stevie Wonder Isn’t Blind? There are a few fascinating clues.

Mike D Of The Beastie Boys Was Screech From Saved By The Bell

This one’s been around forever, and there’s another variation that says they’re brothers. Truth – they are neither. Both have the last name Diamond, hence fueling the rumors. Also RIP Dustin Diamond.

Marilyn Manson Is Actually Paul From The Wonder Years

Was Marilyn Manson on TV in his younger days? The internet slueths say he was that nerd Paul Pfeiffer on The Wonder Years. Although Josh Saviano certainly looks like a young Marilyn, it wasn’t him. Nice try interner slueths.

Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of The Moon Syncs With The Movie The Wizard Of Oz

Oh hell yes it does. I’ve seen it, and you can too by clicking here – Dark Side of the Rainbow. Chilling I tell ya.

Elvis Was In The Movie Home Alone

Whadaya think? Was Elvis In Home Alone? Because damn that looks like Elvis. Also, just Google “Is Elvis Alive” to see a ton of photos that are purportedly The King living the good life in Venezuela, Argentina, Ibiza and a hundred other places.

A Woman Was Murdered While The Ohio Players Were Recording Love Rollercoaster

I remember hearing this one in high school, and yes, that certainly is a bloodcurdling scream (and nobody wants their blood curdled, amirite?). Anyway, legend has it that a woman was murdered in an ajoining room during the recording of the song. Alas, it was just keyboardist Billy Beck letting off some steam.

Jim Morrison Is Alive

This one goes all the way back to the weeks after Morrison died, and it stems from a few things. First of all, he’d mentioned faking his death a few times. Said he wanted to live peacefully as a poet. Secondly, he was facing prosecution in Florida so a new start would’ve been a nice play on his part. Thirdly, only a couple people were at the funeral or actually saw the body. So, did Mr. Mojo actually rise like he sang in that song?

Tupac Shakir Is Alive

Hell, he’s spotted a gazillion times. Here are just the Top Ten. Then again, it seems like a lot of people have that Tupac look.

Phil Collins’ Song In the Air Tonight Is About The Time Phil Watched Someone Let A Man Drown

This one stems from a line in the song that says, “Well, if you told me you were drowning
I would not lend a hand.” Yeah, I don’t get it either. Anywho, Phil says the rumor is balderdash so there.

Charles Manson Auditioned For The Monkees

Love this one. Although Charles Manson’s connection to the Los Angeles rock scene of the late ’60s, through his friendships with Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys and Byrds producer Terry Melcher, is well-documented, he did not audition for the Monkees. According to Snopes’ research, Manson was incarcerated at McNeil Island, Wash., when the show was cast in September 1965 and wasn’t released until March 1967. Damn.

So there ya go. Weird Rock ‘n’ Roll urban myths. Say hello to Elvis for me, will ya?

The Four Major Mysteries of Our World

Admit it. It’s 2024, and we should know pretty much everything about the world we live in, right?

Wrong.

The truth is we’re just beginning to understand the world around us, not to mention the world outside us, as in space. For now however, let’s stick to good old planet earth. What follows are four of the most amazing unknown mysteries of this home we call planet earth . . .

Unclimbed Mountains

In the 162 years since mountaineering became popular, we’ve climbed most of the world’s greatest peaks. Everest, K2, and Mt. Kilimanjaro have been conquered repeatedly, as have hundreds of others that most of us have never heard of. Hell, climbing Everest has become something of a joke, as it’s basically a guided Sherpa tour these days. Still, we’re still a long, long way from getting to the summit of every mountain on earth. The fact is that there are infinitely more unclimbed mountains than there are climbed ones. That means there are hundreds of mountains that have never, ever been climbed or seen by a human being. Amazing really.

Unknown Animal Species

Consider this:

In 1972, some biologist named Jennifer Owen began to document the species that she found roaming around her suburban garden. By the time 40-years had passed, she’d noted over 8,000 species, 20 of which had never before been seen in England. And of those 20, four were completely new to science. Without leaving her home, Owen had documented four entirely new species.

Yep. That happened.

This little anecdote demonstrates how little we really know about the species with which we share our planet. There’s such a mind-bogglingly large number of creatures out there that people are stumbling over completely new ones all the time, often in the strangest places. As amazing as Owen’s finds were, they’re not even the most improbable. Dave Ebert, a scientist living in Taiwan, has found 24 new species of shark just by browsing his local fish market.

Mind-boggling indeed.

Factoid: Over the last year a new species of bat, dolphin and shark were discovered. Surprised yet?

Here’s the deal – by one 2024 estimate, the number of undocumented species on Earth stands at 7.5 million. At the time that estimate was made, we’d only cataloged 1.2 million. That means that up to 90% of marine species and 86% of land species could be utterly unknown to science.

Unknown Plant Species

Biologists have described and classified 1.9 million plants and animals as of 2024, less than one-quarter of the total species estimated in the world. Scientists figure there are still well over five million species waiting to be found.

And I’ve written about this before, but I need to include it here as well. Roughly 50% of all pharmaceuticals we use today are derived from the earth’s plants. Not that surprising. However, we’ve only fully examined and tested 10-15% of the world’s plants. What exists in the other 85-90% of the plants we haven’t studied? Cures for cancer or other diseases? That’s one hell of a reason for saving our rainforests and other plant life, correct?

This information reminded me of something a very old Montserratian woman told me once. She said that the cure for any disease can be found in plant or animal life right here on earth because the earth created them, and that we just haven’t found them yet. Makes sense when you think about it.

Unexplored Caves

Followers of Shoe: Untied are an educated lot, so you all know that most of the Earth’s oceans remain unexplored. However, there are places right below us that we don’t really know about either. Beneath our feet are literally thousands upon thousands of caves that no human being has ever set foot in. These subterranean worlds aren’t even in the minority. One estimate by National Geographic put the number of undiscovered caves at 90% of the planet’s total.

It’s sort of chilling to learn that the vast majority of caves are hidden, with no visible entrances at ground level. Even in a region of the world as mapped and meticulously explored as the USA, it’s thought that only 50% of our caves have likely been found.

This means that all of those grand, crystal-filled caverns you occasionally see photos of online or those big tourist attractions like Old Man’s Cave might only be the tip of the iceberg.

There’s a whole undiscovered world down there, a lightless place cut off from the surface for centuries, perhaps millennia. Good God man, there’s no telling what’s down there. Maybe some of those unknown animal species?

And as I mentioned before, we haven’t even begun to study the ocean. Not really. Hell, we can’t even get down there. The Mariana Trench alone (off the coast of Japan) is nearly 7-miles deep, man! Maybe Godzilla is down there.

Random Rock Encounters: A Retrospective

I was talking with a friend the other day and he brought up my odd habit of serendipitously running into rock stars over the years. Man, that was a weirdly worded sentence. Anyway, it is sort of interesting so I thought I’d put everything I’d written about this phenomenon in one magnificent blog for your reading pleasure. Consider it my gift to you, my loyal readers. You’re welcome. Let us begin . . .

Meeting David Crosby

My regular readers will know that I have a habit of running into famous people, most notably rock stars and their ilk. In fact, sometimes their ilk are more fun than the rock stars, if you know what I’m sayin’. My encounter with Soupy Sales in a Cleveland Airport bathroom is legendary, and I was once nearly beaten to death by one of Eminem’s bodyguards. Good times. Anyway, here’s another of my many rock star run-ins.

It was late summer 1999, and I was in Cleveland with my late, great, good friend Tim to see the Cleveland Browns open their new stadium. We were staying at the Renaissance downtown and I rose early on the day of the game to go down to the lobby and find a drink newspaper. As I was heading down, the elevator doors opened and a guy with shades stepped in and leaned against the wall opposite me. After about 30-seconds of awkward staring from me and nervous avoiding eye-contact from him, the following conversation transpired:

Me: “Man, you look just like David Crosby.”

David Crosby: “Mmrumph.”

Me: “You are David Crosby, aren’t you?”

David Crosby: “Yep.”

Encouraged, I babbled on for a few minutes about his music. At some point I think I wore him down and he realized I actually appreciated and knew his work. I believe that because he proceeded to open up and actually began a nice, intelligent conversation with me regarding the state of rock music, as it was, in 1999.  The fact that I may have mentioned him providing the sperm for Melissa Etheridge’s successful attempt at motherhood didn’t seem to bother him at all. Hell, at one point I didn’t think I was going to get rid of him. He finally walked with me through the lobby, wrote me a nice note and autograph, and actually gave me a bear hug that went on j-u-s-t a smidge too long before he left.

All in all a nice, albeit somewhat weird, encounter that I’ll never forget.

Anyway, David Crosby and I?

Buds.

Running into the Runt

This was a quick encounter but special nonetheless since it involved one of my musical heroes, Mr. Todd Rundgren, once known as “Runt.” Read on . . .

I was casually walking through City Center in C-Bus a few years ago (City Center was a cool mall, amirite?) when I ran into a rock and roll legend right there in the record store. My hands flew to my face as I yelled this:

“TODD RUNDGREN!”

Because I’m quick like that, ya know? Immediately his hands flew to his face as he responded:

“YES!”

Bastard was mocking me.

Anyway, after a couple minutes of my blathering on about his music and what it meant to me and him realizing not only that I wasn’t a lunatic but I in fact knew what I was talking about, we had quite the in-depth conversation about the state of music in general. Finally, I moved on to get a corndog and he left for parts unknown.

And that was my brief encounter with Todd Rundgren. Nice life-moment for me, I must admit.

Pimping for the Electric Light Orchestra

I guess it was around 1977, and a friend of mine named Omar was a roadie that worked shows around the midwest. He never traveled with a band, but rather was hired out as part of a group of guys to help set up shows and whatnot. Anyway, he got to know a lot of bands, had access to backstage passes, and he included me occasionally.

One night I get a call asking if I wanted backstage passes to the Electric Light Orchestra Show at St. John Arena in C-Bus. Well, hell yes. I was a big fan and still am to this day. It’s well known how I feel about Jeff Lynne and his absence from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. With his work with ELO, The Traveling Wilburys, George Harrison and others it’s a damn shame he’s not in there, an absolute travesty.

UPDATE: He’s in.

But as I’m prone to do, I digress.

I eagerly snatched up the backstage pass and looked forward to the show. To say I was amped for this one was an understatement of the highest variety. I couldn’t wait for the show, but more importantly getting backstage and meeting the boys themselves, in particularly Jeff Lynne. The day finally arrived and I headed over to the arena. By the way, I was living at 178 West 8th Avenue, Apt. C, just south of campus, which is not relevant but is nevertherless burned into my brain forevermore. Alas, when I got there I found that I never had a ticket to the show, just a backstage pass, and it wouldn’t get me in at any of the regular gates. What the hell? I was flummoxed. Just when I was at my lowest, in despair and ready to head to High Street and drink away my pain, I heard a voice . . .

“Shoe! Hey! SHOE! Over here!”

I look around, and there walking towards a side door was my boy Omar. They had those portable iron fence things blocking people, and it formed a path the band took from their bus to the arena. I ran over and told Omar of my plight, and at that point he just told me to hop the fence and follow him in with his group. A guard started to object but a long-haired guy waved him off with the classic, “He’s with us.”

Only then did I realize the long-haired cat was none other than Bev Bevan, ELO’s drummer. Seems Omar had been sent to get the band from the tour bus and I happened along at the right time. I recognized Richard Tandy a couple other guys, but my hero Jeff Lynne was nowhere to be seen.

I made my way in and ended up at the side of the stage and was never told to move, evidently due to the pass I had hanging from my neck. The show was great and the view was interesting to say the least. Let’s just say some of those girls in the front will do, well, almost anything to get the attention of the band.

However, it was after the show when the real fun began.

I really had nothing to do immediately following, and Omar was busy doing what roadies do, so I just wandered around looking for the party.

Lucky for me I found it.

It was basically a curtained-off area with some tables and chairs scattered about, along with a boatload of various types of boozes and appetizers. I also remember candles and a lot of incense.  There were also a couple of tables with some other stuff on them that I really don’t feel comfortable mentioning here. I’m sure you could guess pretty easily. Hey, it was the late 70’s after all. I grabbed a beer and took a seat on a comfy little loveseat type of thing that was positioned in a good spot and prepared to watch the festivities.

After a half hour or so the man himself walked in, Mr. Jeff Lynne. He was shaking hands and people were generally fawning over him, so I decided to hold back and play it cool for a bit. A couple of times I could have sworn he actually looked over at me, but I figured it had to be my imagination.

A little later my buddy Omar came walking in, looked over, did a double-take, and did the old olympic speed walk over to me.

Omar: “What the hell are you doing? Jesus.”

Me, offering him a beer: “Thanks, but you can call me Shoe. What’s wrong with you?”

Omar: “You’re in Jeff Lynne’s chair, dude. Get the hell up.”

Me: “Really? Nobody’s said anything.”

Omar: “Get. Up. NOW.”

Me: “But it’s a really comfy chair.”

Omar: “Good God, man, you’re going to get me fired. Get up. Why do you think this chair is at the front of the room and on a raised platform?”

Me, glancing around: “Wow, it is in a good spot. And I never noticed the raise platform thing. Damn. Are you sure I can’t stay here? Nobody’s said a word.”

Omar: “I’m saying a word! Oh God, here he comes.”

At that point I was done messing with my friend and thought the best course of action might be to actually get up. Lynne came over and stopped right in front of us, I’ve no idea why. For a second I thought I was going to get yelled at for sitting in his chair but as it turns out he had a question, and for whatever reason he thought I might have the answer . . .

Jeff Lynne: “Mate, do you know where we might find some tarts?”

Me: “Pop Tarts? I’m sure somebody could run and pick some up for you.”

Jeff Lynne nods approvingly. He was looking at a man of action, a go-getter, a quick decision-maker of the highest order. I was impressing Jeff Lynne! How awesome I was!

But he was still staring at me.

Me: “Oh, you want me to go get them?”

Jeff Lynne: “That would be wonderful. How long will it take?”

Me: “Well, there’s a 7-11 nearby. It should only take a few minutes.”

Jeff Lynne, my hero, again nods approvingly. I only learned later that he had no idea what a 7-11 was.

At that point, as I’m walking out, another roadie dude comes running up to me with a weird look on his face.

Roadie: “Dude, do you understand what he wants?”

Me: “Sure, he wants some Pop Tarts. Do you guys have a toaster in here?”

Roadie: “No, no, no. Dude, tarts are hookers. He wants some hookers.”

Wait. What? Pop Tarts I was good for. Ladies of the Night? Hey, I was good but not that good. Who did he think I was, a pimp?

Good God.

At that point, as you could imagine I was in a bit of a pickle, because, well, I’d just promised I’d supply the leader of the Electric Light Orchestra and future rock hall of famer with some hookers. Not exactly my specialty.

In retrospect I probably could have run over to High Street, gone into a bar, told some girls ELO wanted to meet them, taken them over and hightailed it out of there before the confusion ensued. As it happened though, I only did one of those things.

I hightailed it out of there.

What can I say? I had no idea what to do, I was pretty sure I’d never meet Jeff Lynne again, so I vamoosed. Cut and ran. I scrammed.

I never heard exactly what happened after I left. Omar had gone on to load some trucks or something so he had no idea. Maybe somebody else took care of the band. Maybe something else grabbed Jeff Lynne’s attention.

Or maybe, just maybe, he sat there for hours in his special chair, watching the door, waiting for the tarts that never came.

The O’ Jays and I

For some reason I’ve had more than my share of random encounters with famous people over the years, both from the rock world and elsewhere. Hell, I was once standing at an airport urinal, looked to my right, and there stood Mr. Soupy Sales himself. For you kids under 50 out there Mr. Sales was Peewee Herman before Peewee Herman was Peewee Herman. Sort of. Anyway, my friends seem to enjoy hearing about these random encounters of mine so I thought I’d share them from time-to-time.

It happened when my friends Jigger, Jerry (sadly, both gone now) and I were heading to Vegas back in the early ’90s. You’ve got to remember that I’ve always been quite the Motown/Philly Sound fan and am pretty knowledgeable about a lot of the groups of that genre.

We’d been in the air for a few minutes when I thought I recognized a guy a couple of rows in front of me. Was that Eddie Levert of The O’Jays? I loved The O’Jays!

What the hell, I thought. I went up and sat by him (keep in mind there were only about 30-people on the plane). Sure enough, it was Levert and the rest of the group along with about eight roadies sitting here and there. Turns out Levert was a great guy who appreciated the fact a Southern Ohio white boy loved his music so much, so an idea was hatched in my brain.

Throwing caution and common sense to the wind, I started singing one of their big hits, “Love Train” and begging the guys to join in. What can I say? I was overcome with joy at meeting the O’Jays and I was pretty sure I’d never have this chance again.

Long story short, in a couple minutes all three O’Jays were singing backup to yours truly on lead vocal. One of the guys (Walter Williams possibly) actually got up in the aisle and was doing the dance moves as I stood and sang beside him. Surreal. About halfway through I forgot the words and Levert took over. I then attempted to join the dancing but failed miserably, to the delight of the crowd. Jigger and Jerry? They just sat there with mouths agape, stunned at the surreal scene in front of them.

I then took a theatrical bow with the group as the crowd went wild (at least in my mind, don’t tell me they didn’t), the stewardesses applauded and Jigger and Jerry sat there shaking their heads. I believe I even followed up by trying to start a rousing rendition of “Backstabbers” but the moment had passed. The group got off at our stopover in Detroit, bro hugs were shared all around, and the O’Jays went on their way.

And you know what? To this day I can’t hear “Love Train” without getting a big grin on my face. If only camera phones were in existence back then. Damn it, man.

By the way, my buddies The O’Jays were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2004. I wonder if they remember me . . .

The Legend of James Taylor’s Jacket

Well, it’s a legend in my circles anyway. And yes, kids, I have circles.

Anyway, as many of you know I have a jean jacket that once belonged to James Taylor. For you younger readers there was a pretty good singer known as JT before Timberlake. Here’s how I got the jacket . . .

I went to see JT at Blossum Music Center back in ’78 with friends Tom and Chris. After the show we ambled down to the side of the stage, just getting a look at the setup really. The roadies were tearing down the set, wandering around doing this and that. At some point I look up and say, “Hey, look. He left his jacket hanging on the mic stand.” He’d worn it onstage and had taken it off during the show.

Anyway, one of us (probably Tom) gets the bright idea to try to grab it. Nice plan but the place was crawling with security and roadies. I turn to Chris for ideas, turn back around, and Tom had already jumped the railing and was halfway across the stage. He was just casually walking like he belonged there. A couple of guys glanced at him but didn’t say a word, either because he looked like he belonged or because he was 6′-3″, 260 lbs and looked like he could rip your heart out and show it to you before you died (which by the way he could have but that’s another story). He casually grabs the jacket, throws it over his shoulder, and hops off the other side of the stage as Chris and I run frantically around to meet him. We walk away without looking back, expecting at any moment to hear, “Stop them! Thieves! They have James Taylor’s jacket! For God’s sake stop the bastards!” Except it doesn’t happen, and we make it to the car.

The Jacket.

At that point Tom tries it on. Obviously too small. Chris grabs it. Too big. Heh-heh. Fit me perfectly. Apparently, in ’78, James T and I were exactly the same size.

And that’s how I came to own James Taylor’s jacket.

By the way, later I woke up wide-eyed in the middle of the night, realizing I hadn’t checked the pockets. The possibilities were mind-boggling. Carly Simon’s phone number possibly? Alas, nothing. Damn . . .

How Peter Cetera Once Ruined a Relationship. Mine.

It was the late 70’s and a bunch of us went down to The Natti to catch a

Yeah. This guy.

Chicago concert. This was back when Chicago was cool, still using horns in their songs, long before they went all schlocky and sappy with the lame ballads. Sure, they did slow stuff like “Color My World” before, but unfortunately Peter Cetera sort of took over with tunes like “You’re the Inspiration” and “Hard to Say I’m Sorry” and it all went downhill from there. It would have never happened had guitarist Terry Kath knew that gun was loaded when he put it upside his head, but that’s neither here nor there. Well, maybe to Terry.

But I digress. And maybe there’s another reason I don’t like Peter Cetera.

Back to the concert. This was before those 11-people got crushed to death at The Who concert, so it was still General Admission at the gate. Trust me, when it was General Admission I always ended up right down front, and that’s where this all started.

The show was great, Robert Lamm and Cetera and the boys were rockin’, and my date and I were having a good time. Keep in mind I’d been dating this girl for about 2-years, which will become relevant shortly. Anyway, after a couple of the obligatory encores the lights came up and we’re sort of standing there talking to friends, waiting for the crowd to thin. At that point some guy comes walking up to my girlfriend and asks to speak with her. Hell, I thought something had happened, an emergency or something, and he had been sent to find her. He sort of took her elbow and walked her a few feet away to have a private conversation. She listened intently and nodded her head a couple times, the guy did the same, then she turned and walked back over to me.

The guy stayed where he was. I was getting a bad vibe.

What followed was a conversation that basically ended a relationship.

Me: “What was that about? Is everything OK?”

Her: “Yes, it’s . . . fine.”

Me, senses on high alert: “So. . . what’s up?”

Her: “W-e-l-l . . . that guy told me that Peter Cetera wanted to ask if I’d like to come out to his bus.”

Damn Cetera. Lotta nerve, huh? But my girlfriend was just looking at me.

Me: “Uh, you know what he wants, right?”

Her: “Yes.”

Next came the words that are etched in my mind to this day.

Her: “What should I do?”

Wait. What? What should I do? What should I do?

Me, after about 15-seconds of stunned silence: “What should you do? Well, do what you want, but Mr. Cetera better be ready to give you a ride back to Chillicothe because if you get on that bus I’m not waiting on you.”

At this point she actually thought about it for a minute and discussed it with her friends. Then, she decided she’d stick with me. Boy, did I feel special. Did I mention we’d been dating for 2-years?

Turns out she probably should have gone to the bus. And stayed there.

As you can imagine, we had the “How could you have even considered going off with Peter Cetera like that? How?” conversation about 173 times over the next couple of weeks, and naturally she had no reasonable answer. What was she supposed to say, “Well, I thought it would be nice to boink a rock star?” After that it was all downhill. I couldn’t get past it.

Yes my friends, fame and money are a powerful attractions indeed.

Then again, could I resist if Kate Beckinsale saw me somewhere and sent an assistant over with an invitation to board her bus? No freaking way. Probably not.

Wait. So I would do the same thing I was mad at my girlfriend for considering? Something’s wrong here.

Maybe it’s a double standard?

Maybe I should have just laughed it off?

Maybe I made a mistake?

Maybe I overreacted?

Crap, the more I think about it now the more I think I’m guilty of all of the above and was being a jackass. Or maybe I wasn’t? The mind reels. I’m so confused.

So I come out of this little self-therapy session realizing three things. The first is that I’ll never fully understand the whole dynamic between men and women. The second is that I still hold a grudge against Peter Cetera. The third? I really need to let this go.

Sigh.

Bodyguarding Beck

His life was in my hands.

A few years ago I had a rather interesting experience involving Beck. Here’s how it went down:

A buddy of mine used to work for a company in C-Bus that provided concert workers. You know, to take tickets, stuff like that. He asked if I’d be interested in working one of the shows and I said sure, what the hell, might be fun. So, he talks to the folks in charge and they make the approval. Didn’t know me from Adam but that didn’t seem to bother them. A couple of weeks later I get the call – Beck is playing Veteran’s Auditorium and they needed extra workers. Cool. I mean, at the time Beck was one of the biggest rock stars on the planet, a darling of the critics. Anyway, we get there, are given the yellow T-shirts with Security on the back, and then the head guy comes in to assign jobs.

He goes down the line, grabs my buddy and his wife, and tells them they’ll be assigned rows to help people get seated. Awesome. They’d get to stand there and watch the show. He looks me up and down and says, “I’ll need you in the back” then walks away. Damn. My friend looks at me and says, “Sorry dude. Looks like you’re out at the back door or back gate or something. Sorry you won’t get to see the show.”

Oh well. I took a shot, right?

Finally the guy comes back for me and says to follow him. I do and we end up in the “back”, as in “backstage.” He says, “I want you to stand right here. Under no circumstances do you let anybody through this door.” I look up at the door that says “Beck” on it and ask rather wittily, “You want me to guard Beck’s dressing room?”

And he sure enough did.

Just me, who’d never guarded anything in his life, as the only thing between Beck and the hordes of lunatics wanting a piece of him.

I stood there for a couple hours trying to look menacing, the opening act started, and finally some guy walks out the door – Beck’s drummer. He sits on the floor across the hallway from me and we proceed to shoot the breeze. A few minutes later another band member comes out and sits down as well. Long story short, pretty soon the whole band was out there, including the man himself, Beck, and three backup singers.

I eventually sit down because they asked me to and I figured it was OK. The only time I froze for a sec was when the drummer asked me what I was currently listening to. I really didn’t want to look like an idiot so I said The Eels. I breathed a sigh of relief as that answer was met with approving nods all around. Sweet. At that point I believed, perhaps irrationally, that I’d earned instant credibilty.

Eventually they all went back inside to get ready, and upon their return I was invited by the drummer to stand at the side of the stage and watch the show. Very cool. To top off my evening, afterwards Beck looked at the men assigned to escort him to his bus and instead requested that I do the honors, which I did. Dude must have thought I was a trained professional or something.

Maybe the best part was later, when I met up with my friend and he asked how it was in the back. “Well,” I said. “Let me tell you about it . . .”

A Monkee and Me

Many of you have read about my serendipitous encounters with rock stars and their ilk, most notably David Crosby, Todd Rundgren, Jeff Lynne, and Beck. Hey, I even shared a cold brew with Steven Tyler and Joe Perry of Aerosmith on one memorable occasion.

There’s another encounter I had, however, that didn’t occur face-to-face, but rather over the phone. Here’s what happened . . .

Back in the late 70’s I was perusing the back of Rolling Stone magazine and came across an interesting little ad. It was in regards to The Monkees, the wildly popular band from the 60’s that had pretty much disappeared over the prior decade or so. Hey, but at one point Mickey Dolenz, Peter Tork, Davey Jones and Michael Nesmith were household names. They even had a TV show and everything.

Anyway, the ad basically said something along the lines of, “Wonder what the Monkees have been up to? Call this number to get a rundown on their latest activities!” It then explained that you’d be connected to a recording that would fill you in.

Being a big 60’s music guy I was sort of interested to see what the boys had been up to, so I thought what the hell? I’ll give the number a call.

Remember kids, this was before the internet and to get information you had to, you know, work for it and whatnot.

I dialed and was listening to the phone ringing on the other end when I got a surprise – somebody answered! What the hell?

Being the witty guy that I am, I said the first thing that came to mind:

“Who is this?”

“Who’s THIS?”

“Well, I was trying to call the Monkee’s hotline to see what was going on. I found it in an ad in The Rolling Stone.”

“Oh yeah. You called the right number. The recording is down so I went ahead and answered.”

At this point I figure I’m talking to some secretary or something and am ready to hang up. But then . . .

“What do you want to know? This is Michael.”

Wait. Michael? As in Michael Nesmith?

Yep. Sure enough was. The one who always wore the skull cap, or toboggan if you will. Long story short he filled me in on everything, from Davey Jones and his work on Broadway to Peter Tork’s addiction problems. But what has stood out over the years, though, was what Nesmith told me he was doing:

“Yeah, I’m really into making music videos. That’s going to be the next big thing.”

Huh? Music videos? Why the hell would anyone want to watch that? I had no idea what he was talking about. Of course, MTV started a couple years later and everything became clear to me.

And Michael Nesmith? He ended up producing, among others, the music video for the Lionel Richie single “All Night Long” and the Michael Jackson single “The Way You Make Me Feel”.

Music videos? Who knew?

Turns out Michael Nesmith did.

Steven, Joe and Me: Meeting Aerosmith

My boys. Well, for a minute.

Back around 1978 Aerosmith was on a bit of a downward spiral. Something about drug addictions and whatnot. Anyway, it was after “Dream On” but before the album “Permanent Vacation” marked their return to prominence. A friend of mine was a regional roadie, one of those guys who doesn’t travel with the bands but works a certain area where he helps set up shows and the like. Well, he had backstage passes to Aerosmith and asked if I wanted one.

Well, yeah.

I watched the show (not so good actually – something about drug addictions and whatnot) then headed backstage for the festivities. I don’t really know how to explain it other than saying it’s exactly what you’d expect it to be. Lots of girls, drugs, alcohol, and things I didn’t recognize and haven’t seen since. Rock and Roll decadence at its highest form. Back in those days I blended right in. My hair was as long as theirs and I looked like a taller Charley Manson, minus the God complex and murderous intentions (well, maybe just the murderous intentions).

I worked my way over to Steven Tyler and struck up a conversation, probably saying something witty and insightful like “nice show” which incidentally would have been a complete lie. He looked at me through glazed-over eyes and offered me a beer (for the record, it was a Stroh’s – dead serious). One thing led to another and I ended up on a couch sitting between Tyler and Joe Perry.

Kids, there once existed a picture of me, between those two, all three of us holding up a beer for the camera with half-crazed smiles on our faces. Later, in one of the dumbest moves of my life, I gave the picture to a girl I was dating, who displayed it proudly on her apartment wall. Sadly, when we had an ugly break-up, she hit me where it hurt most – she burned the picture.

For years I waited for her to show up and say she had really kept the picture, then hand it to me with a smile. That moment never happened, but there’s still hope, right? Right?

Damn it.

When a Beach Boy Tried to Steal My Girl

In the late 70’s I went to see The Beach Boys, again at Riverfront Coliseum in The Natti.

Assclown.

It marked the return of Brian Wilson, quite a big deal at the time. Anyway, we were once again right down front. From the get-go Mike Love was paying special attention to my date, at one point getting down on one knee and singing a song right to her face. I don’t remember the song, probably because I was too busy watching the security dude and figuring my odds of getting a shot at Love’s nose. Eventually Love actually sent a guy down to ask if she was interested. She said no and he never came close to us the rest of the show. Bizarre experience. And oddly enough, a few years later almost exactly the same thing happened with Peter Cetera of Chicago.

Saluting Boz Skaggs

Back in the mid-10s a girlfriend of mine at the time and I went to a Cincinnati Bengals game in The Natti. It was a night game and we were staying at The Cincinnatian, a cool old hotel and a favorite of mine that’s located downtown and within walking distance from the stadium. After the game we went to a few local establishments to celebrate the victory with Bengal fans, then we decided to have a nightcap at the hotel bar. My girlfriend had to run up to the room so I went on into the bar to grab a couple stools. Turns out the place was nearly empty (probably because it was 1:30am), save for a lone gentleman sitting across from me wearing a suit and loosened tie. I didn’t really pay attention to him until my date rejoined me, but when I looked again I said, “Damn. I think that’s Boz Skaggs over there.” After a minute or two I walked over, stuck out my hand said, because I’m quick like that, “You’re Boz Skaggs aren’t you?” I know, not my best work but still. Anyway, he looked me right in the eye and said, “You are correct, sir.” At that point I told him I loved his self-titled first album back in ’69 and particularly loved the song Loan Me A Dime where Duane Allman played some killer guitar. I think he liked that because most people know him from his mid-70s album Silk Degrees which is less bluesy and a little more poppy. After a nice chat he bid me goodnight, gave a hug to my girlfriend as he left, and since he was taking a drink back to his room he raised his glass in salute and was gone.

We got back to the room, and since my girlfriend had never heard of Boz Skaggs, I played her a few tunes on my phone. She said, “What? That was THAT guy?”

Yep. It was that guy.

Eating Mac and Cheese with Taylor Hawkins

Couscous Mac and Cheese Fan.

It was at CalJam ’18 and I was backstage thanks to a buddy of mine whose daughter happens to be on the Foo Fighters management team. I was causally going through the food line, opening those stainless steel chafing containers as I went. As I opened one I said out loud to myself, “Huh. I wonder what that is?” Next thing I knew a voice from behind me said, “That’s Couscous Mac and Cheese man! You have to try it!” I turned around, and there stood none other than Foo Fighters drummer Taylor Hawkins, who proceeded to grab a spatula and fill my plate with a generous portion of Couscous Mac and Cheese. Then he slapped me on the back and sauntered away. Thanks Taylor Hawkins. By the way, the Couscous Mac and Cheese was indeed spectacular.

Update: Taylor Hawkins tragically passed away a couple weeks ago (March 25th, 2022). It was a shocking loss for the rock world, but I’ll always have that great memory of him. So sad.

So that’s all I got. Oh, I’ve met the guys from Cracker, Carbon Leaf and a few other bands, and I finally got to meet Steve Forbert a couple years ago which was a big thrill for me. He even autographed his book for me.

I’ve also had some near misses as they say, like the time I attempted to approach Eminem at an airport in Miami only to be stopped by a couple bodyguards the size of Rhode Island. Oh, and I approached Eric Carmen at the Cleveland Airport once and he couldn’t have been more dismissive. Go to hell Eric Carmen. Still love The Raspberries though. Finally, I spotted Eric Clapton walking down the other side of the street in the Short North of Columbus, Ohio in the late 00s and gave him a yell and a wave. His wife was a Columbus gal and I read later it wasn’t unusual to see him strolling through the area. And yes, he waved back.

Good times indeed. Have a great weekend everyone.

You Know Santa Claus, But Do You Know Krampus?

Ever heard of Krampus? Krampus is sort of an anti-Santa Claus. According to the exhaustive research by my crack staff here at Shoe: Untied, Krampus is a legendary horned figure who, during the Christmas season, punishes children who have misbehaved. This is in contrast with Saint Nicholas, who rewards the well-behaved with gifts. Good times man. Karma and whatnot.  Anywho, Krampus is more widely known than I ever imagined. Here’s what I found out . . .

Krampus has appeared in both Scooby Doo and American Dad. W-h-u-u-u-t?

There’s a 1969 Austrian film called Der Krampus. No Oscars though.

Krampus comes from German/European folklore dating back to the 13^th century, possibly the 11th. He’s been around awhile.

Krampus’ true origins are most likely pre-Christian.

When Christianity became the norm throughout the world, the legend of Krampus adapted.  Now Krampus was depicted in chains, to show the devil being chained by the Church. Attaboy church.

Krampus is sometimes believed to be the son of the Norse deity Hel, who herself is the daughter of Loki, but I’m sure you already knew that.

Krampus accompanies St. Nicholas.  St. Nick gives presents to good children while Krampus punishes the bad. Take note bad kids.

Krampus comes from the German word for claw.  He’s said to be about 7-feet tall, have a whip tongue and goat-like horns, hooves for feet and carry a bundle of birch switches which he uses to beat children. Good God Krampus. That’s just awful.

Some stories say one of his feet is a hoof, the other a bear-like claw. OK, I’m getting creeped out now.

Some children aren’t just beaten, they’re taken in a box or barrel back to his lair where they will continue to be punished for a year until they repent. If that won’t keep a brat in line I don’t know what will.

December 5^th is Krampusnacht, the night Krampus heads out to take care of business before Nikolastaug, December 6^th, when Santa gives out his goodies. Beware Krampusnacht, children!

Parades are still held in alpine countries with men dressing up as Krampus, wandering the streets and generally having a drunken good time. Oh, and also terrorizing children. Woot!

More than 1,200 people a year gather in Schladming, Styria for the Krampuslauf, a Schnapps-fueled Krampus parade. Nothing more exciting than a Schnapps-fueled parade, amirite?

So there ya go. For every positive there must be a negative. The opposite of Santa Claus is Krampus. Remember children, he sees you when you’re sleeping.

Merry Christmas, and be sure and tell the kids about Krampus!

A Thanksgiving Story to Warm Your Heart

The story began when a guy named Jamal Hinton received a random text from a woman named Wanda Dench. Seems Wanda had texted him mistakenly. Here’s here initial text:

Jamal, perplexed, of course asked who the heck was sending him this text, since he knew no Amanda nor Justin. He was answered, and the following conversation ensued:

Wanda complied:

Of course Jamal couldn’t resist responding, and Wanda did too:

So, this happened:

Long story short, the initial text came in 2016 and Jamal has gone to his second grandma’s house every year since:

I’ve never understood racism and I never will, but in these sensitive times a story of how one kind, simple gesture can lead to a friendship sure makes me feel good.

Happy Holidays everyone.

Update: Wanda passed away 2-years ago but Jamal is still invited and attends the family’s Thanksgiving dinners.

An American Hero: Ruby Bridges

In the Civil Rights movement even children became public figures, such as a little 6-year old girl by the name of Ruby Bridges. Ruby integrated an all-white elementary school in New Orleans on November 14, 1960.

Ruby was born in Tylertown, Mississippi, to Abon and Lucille Bridges. When she was 4-years old her parents moved to New Orleans, hoping for a better life in a bigger city. Her father got a job as a gas station attendant and her mother took night jobs to help support their growing family.

Ruby Bridges was born the same year that the Supreme Court’s Brown vs. the Board of Education decision desegregated schools, and it was a notable coincidence in her early journey into civil rights activism. When Ruby was in kindergarten, she was one of many African-American students in New Orleans who were chosen to take a test determining whether or not she could attend a white school. The test was written to be especially difficult so that students would have a hard time passing. The idea was that if all the African-American children failed the test, New Orleans schools might be able to stay segregated for a while longer. Ruby lived a mere five blocks from an all-white school but attended kindergarten several miles away at an all-black segregated school. Incredibly, Ruby Bridges was one of only six black children in New Orleans to pass this test.

The faces of hatred.

On the morning of November 14, 1960, federal marshals drove Ruby and her mother five blocks to her new school. While in the car, one of the men explained that when they arrived at the school, two marshals would walk in front of Ruby and two would be behind her. The image of this small black girl being escorted to school by four large white men inspired Norman Rockwell to create the painting “The Problem We All Live With”, which graced the cover of Look magazine in 1964 (photo at bottom). As soon as Bridges entered the school, white parents pulled their own children out; all the teachers refused to teach while a black child was enrolled. Finally, one person agreed to teach Ruby  –  a courageous female teacher named Barbara Henry, from Boston. For over a year Miss Henry taught Ruby alone, “as if she were teaching a whole class.” Here’s a photo of the amazing Miss Henry with Ruby:

That first day, Bridges and her adult companions spent the entire day in the principal’s office; the chaos of the school prevented their moving to the classroom until the second day. On the second day, however, a white student broke the boycott and entered the school when a 34-year-old Methodist minister, Lloyd Anderson Foreman, walked his 5-year-old daughter Pam through the angry mob, saying, “I simply want the privilege of taking my child to school.” Another hero right there – Mr. Lloyd Anderson Foreman.

Lloyd Anderson Foreman (left)

A few days later, other white parents began bringing their children, and the protests began to subside. Every morning as Bridges walked to school, one woman would threaten to poison her; because of this, the U.S. Marshals dispatched by President Eisenhower, who were overseeing her safety, allowed Ruby to eat only the food that she brought from home. So damn sad.

The Bridges family suffered for their decision to send her to William Frantz Elementary. Her father lost his job, the grocery store the family shopped at would no longer let them shop there, and her grandparents, who were sharecroppers in Mississippi, were turned off their land.

However, Ruby has since said that many others in the community, both black and white, showed support in a variety of ways. Some white families continued to send their children to Frantz despite the protests, a neighbor provided her father with a new job, and local people babysat, watched the house as protectors, and walked behind the federal marshals’ car on the trips to school.

Ruby graduated from a desegregated high school, became a travel agent, married, and eventually had four sons.

Ruby later wrote about her early experiences in two books. A lifelong activist for racial equality, Ruby established The Ruby Bridges Foundation in 1999 to promote tolerance and create change through education. In 2000, she was made an honorary deputy marshal in a ceremony in Washington, D.C.

Ruby Bridges, along with teacher Barbara Henry, parent Lloyd Anderson Foreman and many others, are true American heroes.

Ruby Bridges today.

Barbara Henry today.

Norman Rockwell’s famous painting of Ruby Bridges.

The Mystery of the Lost Gas Cap

Sorta sounds like a Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew mystery, amirite? But seriously, I once had a mystery involving a lost gas cap.

I mentioned this briefly in a story a couple years ago, but thankfully this was a mystery that ultimately had an explanation, albeit a bit of a mind-bending one.

Here’s what went down. One year while driving home from vacation, I stopped to get gas on the West Virginia Turnpike. So far so good. But as I pulled back onto the highway and started to accelerate I heard something bouncing on the roof of my 4-Runner.

What the hell?

It was then I suddenly realized I’d put the gas cap on the roof as I filled up (this was before they were attached) and forgot to replace it. That was my gas cap bouncing away, presumably onto the highway and into oblivion.

Although it was an inconvenience, it was otherwise not that big of a deal. When I got home I bought a new one and went on with my life. However . . .

It had to have been 2-months later as I was walking out to get my mail when I noticed something in my driveway. I walked over, looked down, and there on the ground, unmistakably, was my original gas cap.

What the hell? To say I was bewildered was an understatement.

As odd as it sounds, the first thing that raced across my mind was the irrational thought that somebody had found my gas cap, brought it to my house, and threw it in my driveway.

Of course, that made zero sense, and even if somebody had found my gas cap, decided to return it and somehow figured out where I lived, I’m pretty sure they’d knock on my door rather than toss it in my driveway.

After getting my head together and thinking this over for a few minutes, the only thing I could surmise was that it had been stuck on the roof of my 4-Runner somehow, probably on the luggage rack, and had fallen off in my driveway. That had to be it, right?

Still, what are the odds that, after me driving around for weeks, it would fall off right there in my driveway?

That’s one hell of a coincidence.

Weird, man. Life is strange.

The Thing in the Sand

It looked exactly like this, at least in my mind.

It was 2:00 AM when I first saw it.

I was at the cottage in North Carolina, sitting on the swing in the screened-in front porch. I hadn’t been able to sleep and I was just sitting there, looking out at the sand and neighboring cottages. It was a beautiful, breezy, moonlit night and all I could hear was the sound of the wind and the waves crashing to shore.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. It had darted around the corner of a cottage and was moving in starts and stops across the sand and sea oats. Whatever it was, it’s herky-jerky movements were sort of unsettling to watch. It was like it was jumping on predators, devouring them quickly, and moving on. Finally, directly in front of the cottage, it stopped. I stood up and pressed my face near the screen, but I couldn’t make out what it was. It was about the size of a large cat, but wasn’t shaped like one at all. It was . . . sort of shapeless. And then I had a scary thought. What if it’s looking at me? I swear I could make out two black eyes. I half expected it to make a charge but it just sat there, seemingly taunting me.

But I would not be intimidated. I snuck inside the cottage and grabbed my trusty baseball bat and a flashlight.

Then, with a mixture of terror, curiosity and trepidation, I crept down the front steps.

What the hell was that thing?

Finally, I reached the bottom. Across the sand, The Thing was still there. I felt like Joaquin Phoenix in the movie “Signs”, when he took out the alien with the baseball bat. I could hear the words in my mind . . .

“Swing away, Shoe. Swing away.”

I crept closer, but the mysterious Herky-Jerky Thing With No Name did not move.

And then, suddenly, it darted 8-10 feet and stopped, seemingly on a dime. Then it was as quiet as death, as motionless as a corpse.

I was perhaps 20-feet away, light in hand, bat at the ready.

In retrospect, I don’t think I wanted to do The Thing harm, I simply wanted to see it up close. But the strange way it moved, here and there, up and down, back and forth, made me uneasy. It seemed somehow alien. I feared it, possibly because I knew not what it was. As I approached, I half expected it to make a charge, leap upon my shoulder, rip a vein out of my neck, and kill me without remorse.

Hence, my weapon. The Louisville Slugger. The great equalizer, or so I hoped.

As I drew closer, perhaps to a distance of 10-feet, a horrific thing happened – it came at me. It was flying now! As it charged, it seemed to grow bigger, like an octopus underwater or a peacock spreading its wings.

It was heading straight for my face.

I staggered backwards in an effort to avoid the onslaught of what was to come. Fangs? Talons? Both? At that point I may or may not have let out a screech akin to that of a 1-year old infant whose bottle was snatched, but that’s neither here nor there.

Oddly though, The Thing flew over me, past me, and landed behind me. I turned, but it was still, again.

Was it trying to scare me? If so it had succeeded. But it was now between me and the cottage. I was trapped. Why the hell did I come down here in the first place?

The night was quiet as I weighed my options. Yell and try and scare it away? Circle around it and try to get back up the steps to the porch? Swing away? Run for my life?

Meanwhile, it sat there, unmoving. I could see its icy stare, daring me to try and get past it.

Finally, a thought. Maybe the light would scare it away.

Slowly, I brought the flashlight up and aimed it at The Thing. With my thumb I gently and slowly flipped the on switch, expecting the worst. And there, squatting in the dunes, was . . .

A plastic shopping bag from Food Lion.

With a yellow, black-eyed happy face on it.

It had been blowing around, snagging on Sea Oats, darting about the sand, and messing with my mind.

Oh good Lord. I felt like a complete idiot. Keep in mind I’d been stalking a happy face plastic bag for nearly an hour. Damn you, happy face shopping bag. Damn you to hell.

At that point I grabbed the bag, tossed it in our trash can under the cottage, and went back up to my swing, where I sat shaking my head every few minutes, amazed at what a moron I’d been.

Anti-climactic? No doubt. But the very next day I bought one of those rechargeable searchlights at Walmart. From then on when I spotted a Thing in the Sand, I checked it out from the safe confines of the porch.

My heart, and sanity, are better off for it.

PS – Upon rereading this story it sounds really dumb. Or to put it more succinctly, I sound really dumb. Perhaps alcohol was involved, I cannot be certain.

PPS – Hey, I was on vacation. Chillax.

The Salute Option

As is often the case with these things, I’ve no idea where I came up with the idea. I believe it all started when I was teaching at Greenfield Middle School and a pretty good kid did something stupid. It should come as no surprise that this happens often, good kids doing dumb things. Anyway, I didn’t want to punish the kid too severely for what he’d done, just rip his ass and scare him a little bit.

However, for some reason I gave this student three options regarding his discipline. His options were:

1. He had a week of detention.

2. I’d make a call to his mom and dad.

And for reasons unbeknownst to me . . .

3. He had to promise to salute me every time he saw me for the rest of his life.

Yeah, I know. Makes no sense on any level. I’ve never been in the armed forces or anything. Like I said, the kid made a dumb mistake, I don’t even remember what it was. I wanted him to remember what he’d done without really getting him into trouble, ya know?

And of course he picked #3. Who wouldn’t? For the next several years every time I saw this kid in the hallway, at sporting events, anywhere, he stopped and saluted.

Bottom line, I used this form of “discipline” several times over the years at Greenfield, Rainsboro, Twin and Paint Valley. You’d think in most cases Option #3 would be forgotten pretty quickly, right?

Wrong.

Here are some examples of students sticking to their promise . . .

When the kid I just mentioned was probably in his early twenties, I was stopped at a stoplight in Greenfield and the girl I was with said, “Uh, Dave, what’s that guy doing?” I glanced over and there, catty-cornered across the street, standing on the sidewalk, was my guy. He was standing quietly at attention, saluting me.

Once I was coaching a varsity basketball game at Paint Valley and something caught my eye across the court. There, standing at mid-court, was a 30-year old man saluting me.

Another time I went to a funeral in Bainbridge, had left the funeral home and was pulling into the cemetery for the burial. There, standing by the entrance, was one of the funeral home workers, saluting me as I passed.

But alas, it gets weirder.

I was once at a nice restaurant in German Village in Columbus, Ohio with a group of people. At one point everyone at my table got sort of quiet. I looked up to see everybody staring at something a couple tables away. Yep, there was a former student, standing quietly, at attention, looking directly at me and saluting.

Perhaps my favorite memory is this one –  while visiting friends at Myrtle Beach one summer, I took a moment to step out on the balcony of their condo to take in the view. At some point I glanced down, and there, standing in the surf and saluting, was a former student.

What were the odds?

All these salutes in weird places were from former students who’d taken Option #3. The odd thing is, nobody ever yells first or anything. They just stand there quietly, waiting patiently for me to notice them. Odder still is the fact that other people notice them first. It’s often another person who points them out to me.

So, if you choose to attend my funeral someday (and I hope it’s a l-o-n-g way off), don’t be surprised if the occasional person stops at my casket, smiles, and gives me a short salute.

After all, they’re just fulfilling a promise.

5 Inventions You Use Every Day That Have Relatively Unknown Inventors

Yeah, we’ve all heard of Thomas Edison, Ben Franklin, Henry Ford and all the other famous inventors. However, there are many more inventions that we use every day that were invented by people you’ve never heard of. Read on . . .

JOHN WALKER

No, I’m not talking about the Johnnie Walker who created the scotch whiskey some folks prefer. I’m talking about the other John Walker, the dude who invented friction matches. It might surprise you to learn that matches weren’t invented until 1827. That’s too bad because Lewis and Clark could have used some. Anywho, Walker marketed them as “friction lights,” which is cool as hell but most people called them “lucifers” which was even cooler. Walker was never satisfied with his invention and did not patent it, which led to him making zero dollars for an invention that is still widely used today. Crazy, man.

Factoid: Lighters were invented before matches.

Kewl.

RON KLEIN

Almost every day of your lives, we as adults use something Ron Klein invented. Anybody? Bueller? Bueller? Nobody? Well, Mr. Klein invented those magnetic strips on the back of ATM or Credit Cards. Before we were able to imprint account numbers on cards, vendors had to consult a large printout of credit accounts before accepting charge cards. Klein saw this as a pain in the ass and also as something he could fix. Using the recently developed magnetic tape being used in the recording industry, he invented a method of encoding magnetic tape with simple information, like an account number, and applied this to the back of a credit card. Freaking genius, brah.

GEORGE CRUM

Ah, my favorite. The aptly named Mr. Crum invented something that’s probably in everybody’s cupboard as we speak – the potato chip. And guess what? He did it out of spite. While working as a chef at Moon’s Lake House in 1853, George Crum served a plate of French fries to a customer who complained that the fries were too thick and soft. Deciding to stick it to this irate customer, Crum sliced the potatoes so thin that they came out as fried chips instead of the normal french fries. Incredibly, the thinly sliced chips were a huge hit and George ended up making them so much that when he finally opened his own restaurant, he had a bowl laid out on every table. He called his invention “Saratoga Chips” and the rest is history.

Tasty, man.

DOUG ENGELBART

This guy invented something most of you touch every day. You grab it, move it around, and it takes you places that only you know. Yep, Doug Engelbart invented the computer mouse. Engelbart demonstrated the mouse in 1968 alongside other innovations, including what would become hypertext, windows, shared screens, and even video conferencing. And once again, although he holds more than 20 patents, he doesn’t hold one for the mouse. He developed it simply as an intuitive device to operate his computer in 1964 and never considered the full commercial applications of it. So sad.

HARVEY BALL

Gotta love Harvey, man. He’s responsible for an American Icon – the Smiley Face. The design took Harvey only 10-minutes to come up with and earned him a tidy sum of $45.00, worth about $350.00 today. He was working as a freelance artist at the time and was commissioned by State Mutual Life Assurance Company to introduce an image to raise morale. Ball’s design was made into buttons for the company and eventually went on to T-shirts, posters, and just about anything and everything else, even inspiring everyone’s favorite emoticon in today’s world. The image has earned billions over the decades, but Ball only ever received that one initial $45.00 check.

The one and only original.

Honorable Mention would have to go to George Lyon, the man who invented . . . wait for it . . .  the automobile bumper. Dude may have saved more lives than anybody in history.

Fun Invention Fact: Bubble Wrap, the popular, poppable packing material was actually invented serendipitously. Alfred Fielding and Marc Chavannes were trying unsuccessfully to design a plastic wallpaper, and in the process discovered that their invention made an effective packing material. The entrepreneurs went on to found the Sealed Air Corporation, a company that now produces annual revenues exceeding $8-billion, and it employs 26,300 people in 175 countries. Cool beans.

So, did ya learn anything today? Of course you did.

You’re welcome.

Cannonball Run Is Still Alive, New Record Set!

Did you know the movie was Cannonball Run was actually based on a real event? The original Cannonball Run was a pedal-to-the-metal, totally illegal, cross-country sprint for glory.

Originally started to protest the 55 mph speed limit in the 1970’s by Car & Driver Editor Brock Yates, the Cannonball Baker Sea to Shining Sea Memorial Trophy Dash was a coast-to-coast endurance race from New York City to Los Angeles. Drivers would punch a clock at the Red Ball Garage on E. 31st Street in Manhattan and cross the finish line at the Portofino Inn in Redondo Beach, Los Angeles, a distance of nearly 3,000 miles. It doesn’t get more American than that, my brothers and sisters.

I remember when I was a teenager reading about a black C4 Corvette which had been outfitted as the ultimate stealthy Cannonball car.  It had the latest radar detector, a Beartracker mobile Police scanner and switches to disconnect the brake lights and disable the inner tail lights to change the appearance of the car at night.  That car and the idea of high speed travel while remaining out of sight to the po-po is an idea that I always thought was cool as hell. 

I was thinking about the race recently and decided to check up on it via The Goggle. Turns out the Cannonball record was broken as recently as 2020, as the dudes breaking it were aided by empty roads due to the COVID-19 pandemic.

Doug Tabbutt of Twinsburg, Ohio (Yay! O-H!), and Arne Toman of Chicago (and also aided by navigator and police spotter Dunadel Daryoush) managed the 2,816 mile drive from New York City to Los Angeles in just 25 hours and 39 minutes, setting the new unsanctioned, Cannonball race record. They beat the old record by 16-minutes. The drive, which was completed in secrecy in early May, bested their November 2019 record-making runtime of 27 hours and 25 minutes by nearly an hour, assisted by largely empty roads. Their average speed for the trip was about 110 mph, although they did reach 125 mph averages across multiple states in the midwest and managed to get the car up to 175 mph at one point. Jeebus! By checking their map it looks as if they shot across Ohio on I-70 and I’m shocked they didn’t get stopped by our over-zealous staties.

The boys completed their trip in a 2016 Audi S6 which had been modified to look like an unmarked Ford Taurus Police Interceptor, believe it or not. That’s diabolical.  Also, to help masquerade the Audi sport sedan’s proportions, Tabbutt and Toman reshaped the front grille and even added a decoy Ford badge. They also added a 45-gallon, trunk-mounted fuel cell to help reduce the need to refuel the car during the trip.

Anywho, it soothes my soul knowing the Cannonball Run is alive and well. Good job, men.

PS- The Cannonball Run movies (three I think) are gold. If you haven’t seen them they’re a must-view for any discerning and self-respecting cinephobe.

I Don’t Know Jack!

Note: The names and places in the following story has been changed for reasons that will soon become clear. Plus I don’t want to be contacted by the authorities.

Around 25-years ago I became friends with a guy I’ll call Jack. Jack owned a little shop around the corner from our cottage at the beach, and we sort of hit it off right away. We had a lot in common and shared the same sense of humor. Jack was a pretty big guy and wore his hair tied back in a ponytail. He was one of those guys who was always trying to make a buck, trying to hit the jackpot with some business venture. In the years I knew him he owned the aforementioned shop, a Thai restaurant, and a place where vacationers could rent stuff – those little wagons with the big tires to haul stuff to the beach in, things like that.

As I got to know him it soon became apparent that his background was, well, a little shady. Once over a couple adult beverages he began telling me that he used to live on the Gulf Shore of Louisiana. He said that he and a friend were heading in after a day of fishing when they saw something floating in the water. Upon closer inspection they realized it was a few really, really big bales of marijuana. After some discussion they decided they should probably take it in to the Coast Guard Station, which was about a half mile from their house near the beach. After a lot of work getting the weed onboard, they place it right on the front of their boat for all to see as they headed toward the shore, directly towards the Coast Guard building.

But as they drew closer, they noticed that nobody was around at the station. The place seemed to be empty. It was then they made a last-second decision. They drew right up to dock, then made a hard left-hand turn straight towards their house.

Note: I’d like to take a second to reiterate here that I don’t condone any of this. That said, it does make a hell of a story. 

Long story short, they took the bales home, made some calls, and sold them for their own gain. After listening to this story I asked Jack how much money he made from the weed. His response?

“Well, how do you think I started this business?”

Ok.

Another time I was sitting with him in the back room at his beach rental place and he was talking on the phone to a friend of his back in Jersey. It seems that some vacationers had rented a couple kayaks from him and made off with them back to Virginia. These were really nice ocean kayaks, worth $1,000.00 apiece or something like that. As I’m sitting there, Jack is asking his friend to help him get the kayaks back. He was on speaker phone, so it was then I overhear this conversation:

Jack: “Listen, I really want this taken care of. How much would it cost me?”

Friend: “It depends on how many were involved. Usually $10,000.00 per.”

Jack: “WHAT? Ten grand to get back two kayaks?”

Friend: “Oh, wait. I thought you meant you wanted the people taken care of. I can get your kayaks back for a grand.”

When Jack got off the phone he simply looked at me and we had this exchange:

Jack: “You didn’t hear that.”

Me: “Hear what?”

As I said, we’d become pretty tight over the years (I’d met his wife and kids) and I’d always make a point to spend time with him when I went to the beach. That is, until a few years ago when I went to his place of business. I walked in and asked if he was in, and the girl at the counter just looked at me, turned around, and speed walked to the back room. Right away a guy came out and we had this discussion:

Man: “You’re looking for Jack?”

Me: “Yes I am.”

Man: “Are you a friend of his?”

Me: “Yes, I’ve known him for a long time.”

Man: “Do you know where he is? A lot of people are looking for him.”

Me: “What? Is he OK?”

Man: “More than likely, but there are a lot of folks around here that want to know where he is.”

After some more discussion I came to realize that Jack had borrowed a lot of money from potential investors in one of his schemes and made off with the loot to parts unknown.

He went on the lam, so to speak, and has never been found.

A few years ago I was in a local beach bar, and somehow a guy recognized me as a friend of Jack’s. Again, I went through the same question-and-answer routine, basically trying to convince the guy I hadn’t seen Jack in years, because I haven’t. Promise.

But, in my mind I picture him living in a little hut on an island beach somewhere, maybe running a little Tiki Bar and living the good life. Either there or, you know, prison.

But either way, whether tourists or inmates are involved, somebody is bound be to getting scammed.

The Kid Kayakers Meet the Jon Boat from Hell

Yeah, I know I’ve sort of been purging my soul lately. Once again I’m about to tell you a story that I’m not particularly proud of. Just try and remember that there is no correlation between my compassion for people and my ability to joke about their misfortunes.

But as I’ve said on previous posts, funny is funny.

Right? Besides, no laws were broken that I’m aware of and nobody was injured as far as I know so it’s all good.

It happened years ago when my friend and I decided to spend a lazy Saturday floating down Paint Creek, from a few miles west of Bainbridge to just west of Chillicothe, a distance of maybe 20 miles. Problem was we had no kayaks or a boat of any kind.

After asking around, one of my relatives mentioned that my late grandpa had a big old Jon Boat in his shed, one of those that was rectangular shaped and about 12-feet long. The thing was huge. Perfect, we thought. We’d commandeer that baby and go to town.

We loaded up the Jon Boat in my buddy’s truck (not an easy job – I think we turned it upside down and it practically covered the cab of the truck), stopped for some beverages, and hit the highway. Soon we were at our drop off point (a friend was to drive the truck to our destination and leave it there) and we were ready to turn off our minds, relax, and float downstream.

Note I: That was a Beatles reference. However, they weren’t talking about Jon Boats, creeks and whatnot. Trust me.

However, as we exited the truck we noticed something a bit unnerving – the water was really, really high. And fast. Being the inexperienced boaters that we were, checking the water level had never crossed our minds. In addition, being the moronic doofuses that we were, we didn’t even have lifejackets.

Note II: While looking up the plural of doofus, I discovered that “doofi” is also acceptable. Doofi. How cool is that? 

Bottom line, we were woefully unprepared to launch our vessel into the raging, swollen tributary that was Paint Creek. Hell, anybody with a brain would have turned back right there. Of course, we thought about it for about 3-seconds, tossed our cooler into the boat and ventured onward.

It became clear right away that we were in over our heads, so to speak. The place where we entered the creek was just above a section called The Falls, and the water was high and moving fast. On a related note, it soon became clear that Jon Boats weren’t made for white water rafting.

We began moving and immediately started picking up speed. The original idea of a leisurely float down the creek seemed like a dim memory. Still, we thought if we could get through the upcoming falls things would slow down a bit and we’d be fine.

And we probably would’ve been, had it not been for the Cincinnati Area Youth Kayak Club awaiting us around the bend.

We first saw them as we rounded a slight turn in the creek, and there had to be thirty of the little rugrats in the water up ahead. Turns out they were having one of those team building exercises that day. They all had these cute little different colored kayaks, nice little protective helmets, and of course lifejackets. They weren’t stupid, after all. That would’ve been us.

Yeah, sorta like this.

In addition, there were counselors among them, some in kayaks and others on the bank with bullhorns, shouting instructions. I found out later that many in the Cincinnati Area Youth Kayak Club that day were kids who had had been in trouble at school or with the law, the idea being that spending a day on the creek, learning to operate a kayak and getting in touch with nature would do them good.

Oh, they got in touch with nature alright.

Who knew a 12-foot rectangular shaped Jon Boat could go faster than a 6-foot kid’s recreational kayak?

Chaos was about to ensue.

We stormed through the kayakers, all the while being screamed at and chastised by the men with bullhorns on the shore. My buddy may or may not have flipped them off as we flew by, but that can’t be confirmed. The little kayakers paddled away frantically, desperately trying to avoid contact with our battleship. I can’t lie to you, I’m pretty sure I heard some crying, and yes, there were screams of terror as we barreled through. I swear at one point I thought we were going to T-Bone a kid in a kayak, but somehow (out of pure terror I suspect) he summoned the power to miraculously paddle out of harm’s way.

Not all were so lucky, however. We clipped one of the pint-sized kayaks on its tail, sending a youngster overboard and into the drink. I’m pretty sure I yelled “Sorry!”, though I can’t be sure. Last I saw he was dog-paddling his way to the outstretched oar of one of the adults. Thank God for that I guess?

It was sort of like Moses parting the Red Sea, the way those little kayakers got out of our way. It was a beautiful thing, really. You know, other than the kid that almost drowned. As we pulled away from the mass confusion, we saw instructors, kids and parents alike shaking their fists at us as we made our escape.

Of course, My idiot friend and I had a great view of all this because at that point we were floating backwards.

We continued on downstream that morning, half-expecting the authorities to be waiting up ahead somewhere, ready to charge us with inducing panic or negligent use of a Jon Boat or, you know, attempted murder.

But alas, nothing. We’d escaped unscathed.

Too bad I can’t say that about the kid we nearly killed. Little dude probably never went near a creek again.

Childhood Injuries: A Retrospective

Lord knows I experienced more than my share of injuries as a kid, some my fault, others not so much. And although I have scars, thankfully there were no permanent damages.

I think.

Anyway, I’ve written several stories over the years regarding my misspent youth and here they are, all combined into one glorious blog. Seriously, it’s a miracle I survived. Enjoy . . .

RUN OVER BY A TRUCK

Yep. This happened.

When I was 11 or 12 my buddies and I got on this kick where we built homemade go-carts. We’d take the wheels off of an old wagon or something and attach them to a 2×4, make axles, and go from there. We’d attach the axles with a bolt down through the middle, and in that way we’d be able to steer with our feet.

Make sense?

Anyway, the go-carts became quite elaborate with sides and roofs (we’d use whatever wood, tin, or anything we could find in our parent’s garages) along with some creative paint jobs. For mine, I found a big rectangle shaped board and nailed it to the bottom of my go-cart. It made it look like it had wings, so I christened it “The Flying Dutchman” because I’m part Dutch and part German. And hey, even at my young age “The Nazi Death Wagon” just didn’t seem appropriate.

If you’ve been reading my “Childhood Injuries” series, you know that we didn’t exactly err on the side of caution when I was a kid, so it probably won’t surprise you to learn that we raced our go-carts right down the hill on Twin Road. Yes, it’s a pretty high traffic area, but I don’t recall that being figured into the equation at the time.

So we’d have these races down the hill, two at a time, winners advancing just like March Madness. This was a different kind of madness, but still. Each cart had a pusher that would give you a start, just like the bobsledders in the Olympics. My pusher was Ted, the same guy who knocked me out with a beer bottle and watched me plummet 20-feet out of a willow tree. In retrospect, Ted wasn’t exactly a lucky charm for me, but at the time that hadn’t occurred to me.

One day we’re having our races, and Ted gives me a helluva shove. I’m leading by a hefty margin, hunched over to reduce wind resistance as The Flying Dutchman hurtled down the hill.

All was well until I saw the truck.

It was pulling out of Keran Street, which ran perpendicular onto Twin Road. The guy driving the truck looked right, then left towards me. He didn’t see me, perhaps because he was looking for a regulation vehicle on a public road and not a small wooden contraption built from garage junk. Then he turned left, directly towards me, and it was too late for me to ditch.

I was going to be hit.

At this point I had few options. The truck was going to run right over me. It was too late to roll off the go-cart, so it looked like the end for young Ralph David.*

*A lot of people called me Ralph David as a kid, especially older folks like aunts and uncles. Also my mother when she was mad at me.

Listen, if you’ve never seen a truck grill coming at you at 30-mph from a height of about 2-feet off the road you haven’t lived. Without really thinking, I just reached up and grabbed the truck bumper as it went over my head. Somehow, I stayed in the cart but unfortunately the truck kept going. In the background I could hear my buddies yelling, “STOP! YOU’RE KILLING OUR FRIEND!” or something along those lines. Or perhaps they were laughing, I cannot be certain. Anyway, the guy probably only drove a few feet with me dragging under his front bumper but it seemed like, oh I don’t know, 43-miles. This was probably so because every second I held on I expected to lose my grip and be crushed by the undercarriage of a 1968 Ford F100.

But I didn’t, and the driver finally stopped. He jumped out and pulled me from under his truck, genuinely concerned that he may have killed a child. Except not really. He ripped me a new one:

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? You rolled right under my truck you %$#*&%$ IDIOT!!”

Yeah, because it’s all about you, bud. Still, he had a point.

Bottom line I was unhurt, miraculously I might add. And I somehow avoided peeing my pants, which saved me from great ridicule on the mean streets of Bourneville, Ohio.

After some more ass-chewing and the extrication of The Flying Dutchman from under the truck, I pulled my undamaged go-cart back to the top of the hill, where the races continued. After all, life went on, fortunately for me.

And hey, it was just another near-death experience for me. No big deal. Just another day in the life of a southern Ohio kid in the late 60s.

THE HOLEY TONGUE

This was one of the stories in a series about my susceptibility to almost getting killed as a kid. I’ve alluded to this little mishap before, so stop me if you’ve heard it already.

On Halloween when I was, oh, maybe 11 or 12, my buddy Ted and I decided to climb the big willow tree in my front yard and scare the bejesus out of passing children. If you have to ask why you don’t know what fun is, folks.

I was climbing ahead of Ted, at least 20-feet up. He was probably 10-feet off the ground behind me. I reached for a branch, it broke, and next thing I knew I was hurtling downward, backwards, towards the gaping jaws of death. You ever fall from a great height backwards? A lot of stuff goes through your head as you fall all slow-motiony and whatnot through the air, like “I hope mom will be OK without me” or “I sure wish I would’ve kissed Debbie Mirkelson on the playground last Tuesday when I had the chance“, or perhaps, “Oh no, when they clean my room they’re going to find those magazines under my mattress.”

Too specific? Never mind.

My point is, you actually experience great insight and retrospection on the way down. I actually think I may have understood The Grand Unification Theory for a second, but sadly it vanished from my brain upon impact. Anywho, as I flew past Ted, and you may find this hard to believe, but he actually yelled, “A-h-h-h-h-h-h-h . . .” imitating a man falling down a hole.

What can I say? I’ve had some really weird friends in my life.

So I hit the ground, landing on my back, and all the air went out of me. Things went black and I thought, “So this is what it’s like to be dead.”

Except I wasn’t, although for a second I’m pretty sure I saw Jesus.

Soon Ted came down and shook me, probably not the preferred method of treatment, and it was only then that I began to feel the pain. My back hurt like hell, but something was seriously wrong with my mouth. I instinctively reached in there to see what was wrong, and to my horror there was a a lot of blood and a substantial sized hole in my tongue. I ran screaming bloody murder into my house, only to be chastised by my parents for interrupting a scintillating episode of “My Three Sons” or something.

Did anyone call 911? Nah. Was I taken to the emergency room? I was not. I got a wet rag, stuck it in my mouth and got on with my life.

Bottom line? Even though I still have a lump in my tongue today, it healed. And my back is fine if you ignore the fact that, on rainy days, it feels like a honey badger is chewing on my lower lumbar vertebrae.

What can I say? ‘Twas a different, and in many ways better, time.

THE FRIED HAND

When I was really young, around three-years old, I was at my grandparent’s farmhouse. They had a woodstove in the kitchen and I was doing what toddlers do, which was toddling. I walked over to the stove and I remember that it looked almost fuzzy, which I know realize indicated that it was red-hot. Being a little kid and not knowing any better, I placed my flat palm on the stove. I don’t remember a lot after that, other than it hurt like a mofo and skin was hanging off my hand like melting plastic.

I have no idea how my burn was treated, but knowing my family at the time grandpa probably killed a chicken and rubbed it’s spleen on me or something (I can’t believe I just typed “Do chickens have spleens?” into The Goggle).

Anyway, it was a serious burn, man. How do I know? Because the scar’s still there, as you can plainly see if you ever want to take a gander at it. On a related note, I used to tell girls I got the scar from pulling an old lady out of a burning car. Hey, whatever works.

Legend has it that my parents had been pretty sure I was left-handed (like dad) up to that point, but I had to go so long using my right hand I became right-handed.

Anyway, it’s weird that I can remember an accident from so long ago, but I think it was so traumatic it’s burned into the banks of my memory. See what I did there? Burned? Never mind.

Note: I just talked to Mom about this. I asked if I was taken to the hospital or the doctor that day and here is her exact quote:

“No, the lady across the road was a nurse or something and she put some kind of salve on it.”

God, that’s just too perfect.

FIRECRACKERS & CLOTHESLINES

That title sounds like a Strawberry Alarm Clock album from the 60’s. Anyway . . .

When I was 16 or 17 I hung around a lot at my sister’s house. She was young and hadn’t been married long, so for a teenager that was the place to go, ya know?

Anywho, one summer night a buddy and I were hanging out there, probably looking for trouble and up to no good. Somehow we got hold of some fireworks and decided to have some fun. First, we went out back and shot bottle rockets at each other, always a guaranteed good time. After a bit, disappointed that nobody was maimed or anyone’s eye was put out, we headed down to the creek to throw M-80s into the water. Lemme tell ya, watching underwater explosions was pure entertainment for a southern Ohio kid in 1973. Probably still is. The fish probably didn’t think so, but hey.

That amused us for awhile, until we began throwing the M-80s at each other, because of course we did. If you don’t know, M-80s are deadly and banned in many parts of the good old USA, basically because they are deadly in the hands of moronic people such as I. How my brother-in-law had possession of these I do not know, but let’s just say he knew a guy. Anyway, in the beginning we at least had the good sense to throw them at each other’s feet, because anyone can spare a toe or two, right?

But of course that didn’t last.

Because at one point I see a lit M-80 coming straight for my face. I instinctively threw my hands up, and as luck would have it the M-80 blew right as it hit my hand.

Good God it hurt. I was certain I’d lost some fingers or worse, but I couldn’t tell because A) It was dark, and B) I couldn’t feel my hand.

The only thing I could do was run to my sister’s house in a panic. I bolted through the darkness of the backyard with my eyes on the light over her backdoor. I was running as fast as I could, holding my hand as I went, certain I was minus some digits. All I wanted was to get to the house and examine the extent of my horrific injuries.

To reiterate – pitch dark, running full-speed through the backyard, focused on porch light. What more could possibly go wrong?

Turns out, a lot – like being clotheslined by a clothesline.

Yep, the one that I forgot was there.

It caught me exactly at throat level, so my feet kept going but my head stayed where it was. I was upended feet first, flew through the air, and eventually landed on my back.

After lying there stunned for a few minutes I got up and staggered into the house and into the bathroom to check out the damages. Turns out my throat had a rope burn across it and looked as if I’d attempted suicide by slitting my throat with a butter knife. Oh, and my back felt as if a railroad spike had been hammered into it.

But on a positive note, I still had all my fingers, and after a couple hours I could actually feel them.

You know, in retrospect I really should have been more cautious as a kid.

Nah, that wouldn’t have been any fun.

HAMMER TIME!

I was in my late teens when this little gem occurred. It was summer and my dad had ordered me to do some work on the gutters of our house. The gutters were loose in places, so I was basically moving a ladder around the house and hammering in those long nails that hold them up where they needed it.

After working about halfway around the house, I decided I needed to take a break and grab a glass of water. I hung the hammer on one of the rungs of the ladder and climbed down.

You see where this is going, don’t you?

It was when I returned to my job that I made what could have been a fatal error in judgment. For some reason (quite possibly because I was an ignoramus) I decided that, as long as I was on the ground, I may as well move the ladder down a few feet. So, I grabbed the ladder and started to move it, and an instant later the world went black.

I think I may have had a brief instant where I thought I’d been attacked from behind with a sledgehammer, but that thought disappeared along with my consciousness.

When I awoke in the grass a few minutes (seconds?) later, all I knew for sure was that I had a massive headache and a knot on my head the size of Verne Troyer’s skull.*

*Search it up on The Goggle.

I looked around, half expecting to see a gang of hoodlums that had inexplicably wandered into Bourneville, Ohio to steal my brand new Stanley Curved Claw Wood Handle Nailing Hammer, except the hammer was right there in the grass beside me.

Wait.

Oh, crap.

I’d forgotten the hammer was lurking at the top, hanging on a ladder rung, waiting to come hurtling down from above the minute I moved the ladder and kill me on impact.

I have no idea how my skull wasn’t crushed. I mean, a hammer falling from 12-feet onto your head? Seriously?

I swear I didn’t even put ice on it. I didn’t even know what being concussed meant back then. I just rubbed it, checked for blood (there was none), and went back to working on the gutters. Hell, if I’d told dad I’d have been rebuked for being stupid, which incidentally would have been 100% correct.

If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a million times. I have no idea how I’m still alive.

OLD SCHOOL REMEDIES, GRANDPA STYLE

My Grandpa Shoemaker was about the toughest old bird you could ever meet. He was once a blacksmith, and a piece of molten iron had broken off and lodged under the skin of his arm decades before I was born. It was never removed, and when I was a little kid he used to let me move it around under his skin. It was weird, you could actually move it up and down his forearm.

Anyway, tough cat my grandpa. He also had hands like vice grips, and when he grabbed you there was no getting away. That said, he was one of the kindest, most gentle men I’ve ever known. As I’ve mentioned before, some of my fondest memories are of when I used to accompany him when he ran his trotlines in Paint Creek. I used to love to listen to him, because he was so wise and his stories were so fascinating to me.

But on to the point of this story. When I was 15 or 16 I went down to his house for one reason or the other. We were sitting on his front porch side-by-side, just talking. At one point he noticed me rubbing the back of my left hand and asked if something was wrong. I told him that a cyst had developed and it was bothering me. It didn’t really hurt but it was about the size of a big marble and was annoying as hell.

I told Grandpa I was going to have it removed soon because it was bothering me, and he just looked at me like I was an idiot. After all, this was a guy who’d had a piece of iron in his arm since 1913.

He then asked how I was going to do that, and I began explaining that it was a minor operation, that they’d just numb my hand and . . .

T-H-H-W-W-A-A-C-K!

Next thing I knew my hand felt like it had been hammered by the heel of a work boot, which is fitting because that’s exactly what had happened. When I wasn’t looking, Grandpa had taken it upon himself to save me some money. He’d slipped his work boot off and popped me a good one. Turns out that in the old days folks got rid of cysts by shattering the living hell out of them, country style.

And you know what? Although it hurt like a sumbitch, it worked. I’d had that cyst for years but after that moment it never came back. I don’t know if he broke it into bits or slammed it so far into my hand you couldn’t see it, but it was gone forever.

Sure, I couldn’t feel my hand for 3-4 hours, but you gotta take the bad with the good I suppose.

Hell, I’m just thankful there wasn’t a hammer nearby at the time.

HOOKED IN THE JAW

When I was a kid my grandfather, my father and I used to go to ponds all over the area to fish. Grandpa Shoemaker used to have trotlines up and down Paint Creek and we’d fish for bait to put on them. If you don’t know, trotlines were fishing lines that were stretched across the creek, attached at both ends to trees or something on the bank. You had bait attached every few feet to the line and it had to be checked once or twice a day to see what you’d caught. Some of my greatest memories are of my grandfather and I checking his trotlines in his row boat.

Sometimes he’d even let me row! Wonderful memories.*

*Except the time I lost an oar. That wasn’t so much fun. Grandpa looked at me like he wanted to beat me to death with the remaining oar and feed me to the Shovelhead catfish.

Anyway, back to the ponds. Dad was fishing and I was beside him. At some point I had to get a worm to re-bait my hook and was walking behind dad. That’s when he decided to cast his line, either because he didn’t see me or because he was trying to teach me a lesson. I’d say it’s about 50-50 either way.

Next thing I knew I felt the fishing line sort of wrap around my neck and hook just under my jawline. That in itself was painful enough, but before I could scream dad whipped the line back out toward the water while the hook was still lodged in my jaw.

Trust me, then I screamed.

The hook stayed imbedded even after the jerk, it just became more deeply lodged in my jaw.

Yeah, that’s never good.

After briefly showing annoyance for my rude interrupting of his cast, dad came back and began his attempt at hook removal. As you know, those things are made to go in easy. Coming out is another story, hence the little thing called a barb on the end.

After much pulling and twisting, Dad and Grandpa finally dislodged the offending hook. I’m telling you, that may have been the worst 5-minutes of my life. Not only that, after the hook was out dad splashed some pond water on it to clean it up. Not the preferred method of wound-cleaning I’m sure. Still, I nevertheless avoided a life-threatening blue gill infection when all was said and done.

Was I rushed to the ER? Nah. Did I get chastised for being stupid and walking behind a man who was casting a fishing line? Of course I did.

And did I ever do it again? No way.

BLINDED BY HENDRIX

Almost.

One day back in the idiocy of my youth, my friend Billy and I made the awesome decision to have a 45-record war. For those of you who don’t know what a 45-record was, it was a little record that had music on it. You played it on a turntable, which was a . . . ah, screw it. Search it up on The Goggle.

The point is we built these little forts out of couch cushions and started whipping these little records at each other, which was like throwing Frisbees except they were thinner with much sharper edges. After a bit I peeked over a cushion and caught a 45 right over my left eye. I seem to remember it was “Hey Joe” by Jimi Hendrix. It cut a nasty slice about a quarter inch long right through my left eyebrow, and I proceeded to bleed like a stuck pig.*

*I have no idea if a stuck pig bleeds more than a stuck rabbit or stuck marmoset, but folks seem to stick pigs for some reason.

I was afraid to tell mom because I knew I’d get in trouble for being a jackass (there was some precedent for this), so I stuck a rag on it until it stopped, then found my oldest sister and asked for her help. After being initially aghast at the injury, she poured some mercurochrome** on it, followed by a big band-aid.

**For you youngsters out there, mercurochrome was once used as a cure-all by mothers far and wide for injuries ranging from small cuts to severe head trauma. A few drops of mercurochrome could supposedly cure a shotgun blast to the chest. Unfortunately, in 1998 the U.S. Food and Drug Administration declared that mercurochrome was “not generally recognized as safe and effective” as an over-the-counter antiseptic and forbade its sale across state lines. Sad, really, but I guarantee Mom had a bottle hiding somewhere until the day she died.

Anyway, had the Hendrix record been an inch lower I’d have undoubtedly lost an eyeball, which is hardly ever a good thing.

Long story short, to this day if I smooth down my eyebrow, there’s a little scar line where hair refuses to grow.

Thanks Billy!

Note: If any of my exes asks about the scar, I got it in a bar fight. Let’s keep this on the downlow.

JUST LIKE THE WESTERNS, BUT NOT REALLY

One time my buddy Ted (yeah, him again) and I found some old beer bottles in a ditch or somewhere. After checking to see if there was any booze left, we got the bright idea to pretend to be cowboys in a saloon fight. Hey, we’d seen the TV westerns where guys were just getting clobbered left and right with bottles that would shatter upon impact. We flipped a coin, and Ted got to go first.

We pretended to fight, then I saw Ted rear back to let me have it. I saw the bottle coming . . . and then everything went black.

Turns out those bottles on TV aren’t real, and it takes a lot of force to actually break a beer bottle over a human’s head, at least in 1967. Hence, the bottle remained intact and I went down like a sack of lug nuts.

At least Ted tried to help. What did he do, you ask? The same thing he saw cowboys do on TV – he ran to the garage, got a bucket, filled it with water and threw it in my face.

Turns out that actually works.

Anywho, I sat up, shook it off, and got on with my life. And we were smart enough not to try it again on Ted, so perhaps we did have a few brain cells in our craniums.

Nah. Probably not.

CROQUET BALL KO

This one also took place at Uncle Myrl’s and Aunt Dorothy’s. One summer day I was up there and we went outside to play some baseball. The problem was, we couldn’t find a baseball. I believe it was cousin Kevin who grabbed a croquet ball from somewhere. We’d been playing awhile, I was pitching, when cousin Mick sent a screaming line drive right back at me. I didn’t get my glove up in time and the croquet ball caught me right between the eyes, knocking me out cold.

And what was the reaction of my loving cousins? They all ran back into the house.

I have no idea how long I was out, but I do remember getting up and staggering back into the house with a goose egg on my head the size of an kumquat. Incredibly (in retrospect), everyone was casually sitting around watching TV.

Me: “What the hell? Thanks for nothing.”

Mick: “Hey, look. He’s alive!”

Kevin, pointing to my head: “Better get some ice on that.”

True story.

THE SLICED FOOT

Once, when I was about 5 or 6 my parents and I were sitting on the front porch and Dad told me to run around the house to see how fast I could go. In retrospect it’s pretty obvious he was just trying to get rid of me for a little bit, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, I was barefoot as usual and when I made it back around and stood there panting, he sort of looked down, pointed, and calmly said this:

“Hey, looks like you cut your foot there.”

I looked down, and sure enough there was a 3-inch slice of meat hanging off my instep like you would not dream. Blood everywhere too, I might add. But hey, no biggie. Mom just slapped some Mecuricome* on it, added a band-aid or six and I was ready to rock and roll.

*Again, for you younger folk out there, Mecuricome was a wonder antiseptic that was used to prevent and cure all sorts of maladies. And yes, it had mercury in it. I recall it was red and it stung like a mofo. Sadly it was discontinued years ago. Something about causing cancer or some such nonsense. On a related note, I bet mom still has a bottle stashed somewhere.

PS- I’m also 90% sure I broke a kneecap that went untreated when I wrecked my bike as a kid. How do I know this? Because when I get down on that knee today if feels as if I’m kneeling on a live power line. Somehow, I soldier on.

THE BICYCLE WAGON TRAIN WAS A BAD IDEA

I have no idea who first came up with the idea, but if I had to bet I’d say it was Max. All the ideas that got us into trouble seemed to originate with him.

All I know is that it was a bad idea, we were idiots to think we could pull it off, and it could have killed somebody. But let’s start at the beginning . . .

It was the summer of my, oh, let’s say 11th year. I’m guessing because I don’t remember exactly when the incident took place, and that may have something to do with what happened that day.

Because you know, concussions and traumatic events can do that to a kid’s brain.

Anyway, myself and six of my friends were sitting in my dad’s garage, probably discussing Raquel Welch in the movie One Million Years BC or the decline of Willie Mays or something. We were all either sitting on or near our bikes, which were obviously our main forms of transportation back then. As I recall, the bikes ranged from my spiffy little Schwinn with the butterfly handlebars and funky sissy bar to my buddy Scratch’s 1954 era Columbia which his dad had passed down to him. Aside from Scratch and I, the other conspirators involved that fateful day were Mel, Max, Rocky, Ted and Fred. Max, you may remember, was the kid behind the infamous episode in which we almost lost our buddy Harold.

Best to keep that in mind as we continue.

Note: Scratch’s name has an interesting origin. You see, his name was Richard so we originally called him Rich, which we eventually shortened to Itch. However, Itch’s mom hated the name and asked us to stop calling him Itch. Hence the name Scratch. Kids can be cruel.

At some point the TV show Wagon Train came up. For some reason, when I was a kid there were a lot of Westerns on television. I think I’ve seen every episode of The Rifleman (stellar), Gunsmoke (legendary), Bat Masterson (I can still sing the theme song in its entirety), The Big Valley (Audra? Smokin’ hot), Bonanza (loved Hoss), and my personal favorite, Sky King. Sky King was about a cowboy who flew an airplane. Really.

But back to Wagon Train. Talking about the TV show somehow brought us around to actual wagon trains, and this led to somebody suggesting we form our own wagon train.

With our bicycles.

Trust me, at the time, in our strange little still-unfully formed brains, this seemed like a good idea. And then, for some unknown reason, somebody suggested we attach our bikes with ropes. Now that I think about it, in real wagon trains the wagons weren’t attached by anything so I don’t know what the hell we were thinking.

But like I said, unformed brains.

At that point we were amped for the idea though, and there was no stopping us. Wagon Train! Let’s do this! So we rummaged around my garage and came up with a collection of rope, wire, clothesline, an old bike inner tube, and a three-foot length of chain. Somehow, we attached our bikes together. I distinctly recall tying one end of a clothesline around my bike seat post and the other end around the handlebars of Fred’s old beat-up Huffy Cruiser.

Note II: Fred, by the way, was a man ahead of his time. He would later become known as the first guy who dyed his hair at our school. Yep, he changed his hair color at the age of 16. And he changed that color to green. Gutsy move in any era.

Soon we were finished and ready to roll. For some reason yours truly was in the lead, followed by Fred, Scratch, Max, Mel, Rocky, and finally Ted. After some initial struggles we actually made it out of the driveway and up the street a bit, albeit with some herky-jerky movements along the way.

By the way, nobody, and I mean nobody, wore a helmet back then. If somebody would’ve shown up wearing one he would’ve been harassed, shamed, laughed at, teased, spat upon and possibly beaten to a pulp for being a pansy. Hell, I once put one of those tall safety flags on the back of my bike and my friend Ted ended up taking it off and whipping me with it. Bourneville was a tough neighborhood back in the day.

We finally made it to the top of the hill in front of the old Twin School, and then we stopped to regroup before heading down the hill towards Route 50. It seemed the prudent thing to do. Regroup, that is.

Did I mention we were about to head down a hill?

At this point I remember raising my hand and giving the signal to move forward, then actually yelling, “Wagons, HO!”

Seriously. I yelled, “Wagons, HO!”

After a couple of false starts we began our descent, and all was well as we started down the hill. Believe it or not we started to gain a sort of chemistry, becoming a finely-tuned working unit if you will. We were pedaling in unison and gaining speed. In fact, we were rolling so fast I started to contemplate other things, the first and foremost being how in the hell are we going to stop?

As it turned out, however, stopping at the bottom of the hill wasn’t going to figure into the equation. This is because right about then, to my horror, I heard Max yell this:

“I wonder what would happen if I hit my brakes?”

All I got out was “Don’t do it M . . .” before, well, Max did it.

So picture 7-bikes, all tied together, going down a hill really fast, and the guy on the bike right in the middle slams on his breaks.

Carnage.

The three guys in front of Max (me, Fred and Scratch) all went right over our handlebars, headfirst. I actually held on to mine for a second, which caused me to flip completely over and land on the road, on my back. Miraculously though, other than the blacktop burn on my ass I was unscathed.

You know, until .3 seconds later when Fred landed on me, and .1 seconds after that when Scratch landed on Fred.

Yep, that’ll knock the breath right out of you, trust me.

As for the rest of the guys, Mel, Rocky and Ted all crashed into Max of course, flipping his bike head-over-heels and into the three now-unmanned bikes in front of them. Oh, and Mel had teeth marks in his back, and from whence they came was never established.

Like I said, carnage.

When all was said and done we were a pile of skinned knees, flat tires, bent rims, banana seats, handlebars, bike fenders and crushed souls.

But as was our way back then we got up, checked for damages, wiped off our scraped knees, dusted ourselves off and pushed or carried our damaged bikes back home. Nobody cried or yelled for mommy, just a lot of wiping off blood and checking for protruding bones. And we were laughing all the way.

After all, we had a memory we could talk about for years to come, even all the way up to June of 2023, almost 56-years later.

Just another beautiful day in downtown Bourneville, Ohio, circa 1967.

Good times for sure, if you could live through it.

GRUNGY’S REVENGE

We had a kid in our neighborhood when I was growing up that was, shall we say, lacking in the looks department. Ah, what the hell, he was the ugliest SOB I’ve ever seen. He had a bulbous nose, elephantine ears, beady eyes, and his complexion was so bad it looked as if his face had caught on fire on somebody’d put it out with a track shoe.

God, I can be mean. But seriously, this dude’s parents had to tie a steak around his neck to get the dog to play with him. I swear he had to sneak up on a glass of water to get a drink. Hey-O! I could go on forever.

In addition, he was really big for his class at school. Alright, so he’d been held back a couple of times. But he was still big for his age, and not just big-big. Humongously fat-big. Add some long greasy hair to the mix and I think you get the visual.

The guy’s last name was Granderson, and for some unknown reason that only our then-addled minds could understand, we called him Grungy. Grungy Granderson. Hey, it seemed to fit.

Anyway, he hated the nickname. Hated it. If you ever called him that you best be sure that you weren’t within grabbing distance or you were in for a severe ass-whipping. However, since Grungy was lacking in the footspeed department some of us would occasionally get away with actually calling him that to his troll-like face. The fact that Grungy was such a mean and hateful guy somehow made this acceptable in our world.

Wait. Now that I think about it, it’s sort of obvious why he was so angry all the time. The world can be a cruel place, man.

I actually felt a hint of remorse there for a second. Hold on . . . OK, it passed.

That said, one day I was cruising by Twin School on my bike with my buddy Buddy (seriously, his name was Buddy) when we noticed Grungy shooting some hoops on the playground. Buddy, who could be a bit of a jackass, then suggested we ride over and torment Grungy a bit. After all, we were on our bikes and he was not. Seemed like a safe and entertaining way to kill a few minutes. Have I mentioned I was once one helluva punk-ass kid?

Before we rode over there, though, Buddy and I had this conversation:

Buddy: “Hey, why don’t you see how close you can get to him, call him Grungy, and then take off?”

Me: “Why don’t you?”

Because I’m quick like that.

Buddy: “C’mon. I dare you.”

Me: “No way man. That dude would crush my spleen if he caught me.”

Buddy: “You’re a chicken.”

Me: “For once in your life you are correct. I am a chicken.”

Buddy: “C’mon. I double dare you.”

Now, when I was 12-years old you could dare me, you could call me chicken, you could question my manhood. But you could not double dare me. Ever. Double dare me and I would take you up on it. That was the rule of the street in Bourneville, Ohio in the late 60s my friends. I know, it makes no sense, but anyone in my age group knows exactly what I’m talking about.

So . . .

We rode on over and I immediately began circling Grungy on my bike, saying clever things like:

“G-r-u-n-g-y . . .”

“Hey GRUNGY!”

“Grungeman!”

“What’s up Grungy?”

“G-R-U-U-U-U-U-N . . .”

A-n-d I never got that last part out because a basketball had just slammed into the back of my head at approximately the speed of light. I swear it felt like a cannonball had hit me from a distance of 10-feet, thrown by an angry King Kong after 17-Red Bulls and a shot of liquid adrenaline. To this day if you look closely at the back of my head I’m pretty sure you can see the faint outline of the word “Spalding” there, backwards.

Of course I flew off my bike, and when I came to my senses Grungy was towering over me like an enraged Goblin on steroids.

Man, was he pissed.

He then picked me up by the front of my t-shirt and belt of my pants, held me over his head, and threw me like a rag doll into the air. While airborne it felt like I was moving in slow motion. Everything became quiet and it was actually quite peaceful for a few seconds. While up there I believe I actually caught a glimpse of Buddy, my supposed friend, pedaling away at warp-speed while glancing over his shoulder in fear, like a hobo being chased by a guy with a job offer.

Of course all that ended when I landed on the playground blacktop.

I sat up, stunned, looking around wildly for the expected onslaught that was to come. But nothing came. All I saw was Grungy riding away on my little bike, looking like one of those bears in the circus that they’ve taught to ride a bicycle. It would have been funny if I’d had any feeling in my upper torso.

After sitting on the ground for awhile trying to catch my breath and my bearings and feeling around for missing teeth and you know, blood, I got up and walked home.

And there, leaning against a tree in my front yard, was my bike.

Grungy had left it for me.

God knows I deserved what I got and he had every right to roll my bicycle into Paint Creek or something, but for some reason he didn’t.

Grungy moved away soon after that, and I never got the chance to ask him why he left my bike for me. I guess somewhere deep inside that big, mean, ugly body there beat a good heart.

I sort of wish I’d known that sooner.

FORK-FACED BOY

As a kid I spent an inordinate amount of time at my Uncle Myrl and Aunt Dorothy’s house. I had two sisters and they had 8-kids including 3-boys close to my age. They also lived just up the road, so I practically lived there. One day we were sitting around the kitchen, probably waiting for Aunt Dorothy to cook us something (amazing cook was my Aunt Dorothy) when I noticed my tennis shoelace was tied in a knot. After many attempts at untying it, I made an executive decision. Being the genius that I was, I decided I’d untie it with a fork.

You heard that right. A fork. I guess a machete wasn’t handy at the time.

The idea was to wedge a prong under the edge of the knot and give it a good tug. I left my shoe on my foot, so I was sitting in a chair, bending over my feet. At first this plan seemed to be working, as I could feel a little give in the offending knot. That is, until my shoelace broke. Since I was pulling towards my face, my fist, with the fork in it, came at me with great force.

The next thing I knew I was standing there with a fork hanging out of my face. It was lodged right under my nose and above my upper lip. It went all the way through my skin and into my gums above my teeth. As you might imagine, this hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Meanwhile, my cousin Brenda thought this was the funniest thing she’d ever seen in her life. I, on the other hand, was looking desperately for somebody to extricate the fork from my face. Finally, when it came apparent none of my loving cousins were going to help, I just jerked the fork out and ran to a mirror to survey the damage. It’s hard to describe but I sort of looked like I had a Hitler mustache, except it was made of blood. I ended up riding my bike home to show mom, who wiped it off with a wet rag, applied a band-aid, and went back to watching As the World Turns or something.

In retrospect, I guess if you have to take a fork to the face that’s as good a place as any. Perhaps I was lucky.

Did I get stitches, you ask? Nah, ain’t nobody got time for no stitches. And still today, if I shave my beard and mustache, you can faintly see four little prong hole scars above my upper lip.

Guess I should feel lucky. I could’ve used the butcher knife.

The Man in the Tuxedo

It happened back in the late 70’s, and I’ve never been able to explain it. The strangeness, the surrealness of it all, I can still feel it today. Because it’s such an odd story I’ve only told a few people about it. I didn’t want folks to think I was, you know, cuckoo or something. Bottom line it happened, and I’m sure there was a reasonable explanation for it. Still, it haunts me . . .

It was the late 70’s, and I was heading home after leaving my girlfriend’s house. It was probably 1:30am, and a very foggy night. Because of the fog I was driving very slowly. There are some winding curves about 3-4 miles from my house, and as I approached them something caught me eye on the left side of the road.

As I slowed down to take a look I saw it. An overturned car was in the ditch, lights still on and nobody else around. There was nowhere for me to pull over because of a guard rail on my side of the road, so I had to drive about 30-yards ahead and pull over. I hit my emergency flashers, got out, and ran back to the scene of the accident.

Like I said, the car was down in a ditch, probably 10-feet below the road level. I stood at the top of the ditch and yelled down to see if anybody would answer.

Nothing.

About that time another car went by, slowed down and asked if everyone was OK, and I told them to call somebody for help (was 911 available in 1978? I have no idea).

Then I slid down the embankment to the car, which was completely upside down. Like I said, its lights were on so I could see a little, but the inside of the vehicle was pitch black.

I bent down close to the door, which was actually the driver’s side window. Just before I started to yell again to ask if the occupants were OK, a face appeared, contorted in terror, screaming to me and yelling “Get me out of here!”

Yeah, if that doesn’t curdle your blood I don’t know what will.

After getting the bejesus scared out of me and regaining my composure (somewhat), I eventually ascertained the following:

1) The guy wasn’t seriously injured, and . . .

2) The person with him, his girlfriend, although she was moaning, wasn’t seriously injured either.

At that point I sort of sat back on the bank and talked the poor guy through his predicament, assuring him that help was on the way, to just hold on and he’d be fine.

The situation then became a little surreal, because it was basically just an upside down car in a ditch in the fog, late at night, with a girl moaning and me sitting on an embankment, waiting.

But then it got a lot weirder, because I heard a voice from behind me . . .

“Is everything OK young man?”

After nearly jumping out of my skin, I turned around. Please understand that I’d heard no vehicles, no footsteps, nothing.

What I saw next was the epitome of surreal. It was an elderly man at the top of the bank, dressed inexplicably in a tuxedo, wearing a fedora with a red band and sporting a red bow tie.

I promise you I couldn’t make this up. To this day I can still see him standing there. He had white hair that stood out against the black sky behind him.

After gathering myself, I told him I thought that the occupants of the car seemed to be fine, although the woman may to be banged up a little. Then we had this exchange:

Tuxedo Man: “Are you sure? Nobody’s seriously hurt?”

Me: “Uh, I don’t think so.”

For a moment I glanced back at the car, then turned back around to the tuxedo clad man at the top of the bank.

He was gone.

I swear it was the strangest moment I’d ever experienced. I just had the craziest vibe ever at that moment.

Then, probably a couple minutes later, I was startled by another man coming from the same direction as the Man in the Tuxedo. It was a guy I’d gone to high school with, asking if there was anything he could do to help. After climbing up the bank, I told him assistance was on the way. Then I glanced back down the road from whence he came and, somehow already knowing the answer, asked the question:

“Hey, when you walked up here did you pass a man in a tuxedo?”

“What? Man? Tuxedo? Uh, no. I did not.”

“You didn’t see a car back there? Or an old man in a tuxedo? White hair? Hat?”

“Huh? Why would I . . . no. No man, no tuxedo, nothing. Why do you ask?”

Oh, no reason really. I just encountered Mr. Death checking to see if he needed to escort somebody to the Netherworld, that’s all. All good man! How about those Bengals, huh?

Seriously, the whole scene creeped me out. Still does. I swear I’ve always wondered that if I’d responded to The Man in the Tuxedo with “No, somebody in the car is seriously injured,” he’d have walked down the bank, opened the car door, and gently carried one of the people inside back up to the road, through the fog and presumably into the everlasting hellfire of Satan’s bottomless pit.

Or, maybe he was just an old, well dressed dude who’d been to a lavish gala in Bainbridge, Ohio? Because Bainbridge is know for its elegant parties, right?

Still, after the ambulance came and took the car’s occupants away and before I went back to my car, I glanced back down through the fog from whence The Man in the Tuxedo came, half expecting him to emerge from the mist, crooking a finger towards me and beckoning me to come to him.

Thankfully that never happened, so I then did a brisk olympic speedwalk back to my car, only glancing over my shoulder a couple times. Ok, maybe a couple hundred times. I also made sure to check out my backseat before heading home.

So there you have it, my Man in the Tuxedo story. Just a old dude trying to help out or one of Satan’s minions? You be the judge. No matter your thoughts, I know I’ll always get a little shiver telling it.

Well, hell. Now Hank and Sweet Lilly want to go outside.

See you tomorrow I hope?

The Ride

Not Army, but this is how it looked. At least in my memory.

Sometimes incredible, amazing things happen when you least expect them.

I love summer, I love the beach, and I always spend time there during June, July or August. Hell, sometimes an October or April visit is in order. And maybe because summer is approaching, an unforgettable incident that happened a few years ago recently popped into my head.

It happened in the Outer Banks. I was with some family members, including my nephews and my brother-in-law Army. We were down at The Point, where if you have a 4-wheel drive there you can drive right out on the beach.

Let me say this straight out –  if you happen to know Army this story will be infinitely funnier, because he’s at the center of the action and well, he’s Army.

You see, we were all out on the ocean body-surfing that unforgettable day. We were catching some pretty good waves, just enjoying the beautiful weather, the sand and the surf. None of us could have possibly imagined what we were about to witness, an event so epic in its awesomeness it’s etched in my mind forever.

All of us except Army had taken some waves into the shore and were wading/swimming back out towards the breakers when it happened. A wave was hurtling towards us, much bigger than any we’d seen that day. This thing was a mini-tsunami. We were only about a third of the way out so it was too late for any of us to catch it. We looked for Army but he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was on the other side of the monster, we had no idea.

Then, about 5-feet in front of the wave, just under the surface and slicing through the sea, we saw him. Army had caught the Mother of All Waves, and was experiencing what would henceforth and forevermore be known simply as . . .

The Ride.

I swear he looked like a torpedo, arms straight out with hands clasped above his head, face down and ankles close together in the back. He shot by us like a meteor as the humongous wave pushed him forward.

‘Twas truly a glorious sight.

We watched, almost in a trance, as he bulleted by. It was then the wave caught us all by surprise, tossing and flipping us over into the angry, churning sea. We came up sputtering and coughing, desperately trying to catch another glimpse of Army and the Body Surf to End All Body Surfs.

The wave crashed to the shore, and as it receded there lay Army, facedown in the sand. I swear he was a good 20-feet from where the sand met the surf. For a few seconds we thought he was dead, but then he slowly rolled over and sat up, stunned. As he looked around, seemingly confused and disoriented, it began . . .

A slow, rhythmic clapping from people all around us on the beach. Some actually rose from their towels to stand, to honor this man who, by performing this feat in front of them, had surely changed their lives forever.

I think I may have even seen a man go to his knees and give the universal “I am not worthy” raising and lowering of his hands.

And in the sky, an old pelican tipped his wings in a show of admiration and respect.

As Army stood, he simply turned to the adoring beachgoers and gave them a thumbs-up, followed by a knowing nod of the head.

It was all that was needed in that moment.

The perfect form, the catching of a once-in-a-lifetime wave at the precise moment, the sight of this man-dolphin slicing through the waves like a barracuda pursuing a grouper – these visions will be in the minds of witnesses forever.

Yes, those fortunate enough to be in attendance that day will never forget, can never forget . . . The Ride.

11 Examples That Show Teddy Roosevelt Was Either A Badass, Batshit Crazy Or Both

Rough indeed.

Theodore Roosevelt was an American statesman, author, explorer, soldier, and naturalist, who served as the 26th President of the United States from 1901 to 1909. He was also either the most daring, toughest SOB who ever lived or he was crazy as a loon. You be the judge. What follows are 11 of the wildest things my man TR ever did.

HE GOT SHOT IN THE CHEST AND PROCEEDED TO GIVE A 90-MINUTE SPEECH

Yep. That’s the shirt.

In October of 1912, Roosevelt was on the campaign trail stumping for the Bull Moose Party. During a speech in Milwaukee, he was shot in the chest by some crank named John Flammang Schrank. Because our man Teddy deduced that he was not coughing up blood, he elected to continue his speech, because hell yes he did. We’re talking about a man very familiar with the effects of gunshot wounds. He’d already shot and killed pretty much every animal on the planet (more on that later) and had watched men bleed out on the battlefield during his military service. Then he had the would-be assassin brought to him and told him “It takes more than that to kill a Bull Moose.” Jesus that’s badass. Then, before he spoke, Roosevelt declared, “I was going to make a long speech, and there is a bullet… the bullet is in me now, so that I cannot make a very long speech, but I will try my best.” When people in the crowd questioned this he simply opened his jacket to show his blood-soaked shirt. 90-minutes later the speech ended.

And oh, by the way, Roosevelt carried the bullet in his chest for the rest of his life.

HE OVERCAME CHILDHOOD ILLNESS THROUGH SHEER FORCE OF WILL

When young Teddy Roosevelt would have asthma attacks, his father, Theodore Sr., would take him on carriage rides to force air into his lungs. And when young T.R.’s illnesses would prevent him from keeping up with other children his age, his father simply said to him: “You have the mind but you have not the body. You must make your body.” Young T.R.’s many health ailments would soon recede as he took up athletics, hiking, and hunting. Only Teddy R could fend off sickness without medicine and with only pure force of will. Teddy, man.

HE’S BASICALLY RESPONSIBLE FOR MODERN FOOTBALL AS WE KNOW IT

Football was once a bloody, brutal, potentially deadly sport. In 1904, there were 18 football related deaths and 159 serious injuries. On a related note, today’s players are wussy-like pansies of the highest order. Anywho, in order for the sport to survive, modern rules needed to be put in place. T.R. invited the head coaches of the top collegiate football teams to the White House on several occasions, strongly urging them to reconsider the rules of the game. He wrote at the time that his goal was not to emasculate the game – but simply to make it less lethal. By 1906, radical rule changes to the game of football were implemented.  “I believe in rough games and in rough, manly sports. I do not feel any particular sympathy for the person who gets battered about a good deal so long as it is not fatal.” Seems logical enough, no?

TEDDY AND HIS SON KILLED 512 ANIMALS IN ONE SAFARI

Listen, everyone knows I’m a big animal guy. No excuse for this bullshit. And turning an elephant’s foot into a trash can takes a special kind of crazy. If you ever take a tour of The Summer White House, Roosevelt’s Long Island home at Sagamore Hill, you will notice that it is full of such disgusting and sometimes wondrous animal trophies. Numerous elephant foot trash receptacles. A rhino foot pen holder. Bear and mountain lion rugs. Bison, moose, and deer wall ornaments. An elk hat rack. The North Room, at his estate on Long Island, is truly a spectacle to behold. Visit it. You will be amazed.

DURING HIS HONEYMOON HE SNUCK OUT TO CLIMB THE FREAKING MATTERHORN

Seriously. During his honeymoon. Dead serious. While a student at Harvard, Dr. Dudley Sargent had warned Roosevelt, who had been a sickly child that, because of a weak heart failure to lead a sedentary life could have fatal consequences. TR would have none of it. “Doctor, I’m going to do all the things you tell me not to do. If I’ve got to live the sort of life you have described, I don’t care how short it is.” A year after graduation, Roosevelt took time from his European honeymoon with wife Alice to scale the 15,000-foot Matterhorn.

HE ONCE STAYED UP 40-STRAIGHT HOURS TO WATCH 3-OUTLAWS HE’D CAPTURED

After his wife and mother died – on the same damn day – T.R. grieved in his own unique way: by leaving the city behind for the wild of the American West to become a cowboy, because what the hell else would you expect from him? He operated a cattle ranch in Little Missouri in the Dakotas for a few years, learning to ride, rope, and hunt. He worked alongside men who made him tougher, stating that they “took the snob out of him.” During his years in the West, he wrote several books on the subject, before returning home and running for office. Anyway, while living in North Dakota T.R. became a deputy sheriff, which by now should be in no way surprising. During this time, he once pursued three boat thieves through a frozen river. After capturing them, he personally took them to the town of Dickinson for trial rather than allow them to be hanged by vigilantes. On the journey, he watched them for 40-hours straight without sleep. Of course, he read Tolstoy to keep himself occupied. “I kept guard over the three prisoners, who were huddled into a sullen group some twenty yards off, just the right distance for the buckshot in the double-barrel.”  Bad. Ass.

HE HAD A HUGE TATTOO OF THE ROOSEVELT FAMILY CREST ON HIS CHEST

Yes kids, Teddy Roosevelt was the only US president who was inked up. That is all.

HE WENT ON AN UNCHARTED JOURNEY DOWN AN ANACONDA AND PIRANHA-INFESTED RIVER IN SOUTH AMERICA

Listen to this one – Accompanied by his son Kermit and famed explorer Colonel Candido Rondon, they set off on a journey down a river in South America known as the River of Doubt. Things were not going great, and by not going great I mean things were going horrifically wrong. They lost 5 of 7 canoes. They were in close vicinity to cannibalistic tribes. One sailor died in the rapids. Another was murdered by a crew member gone mad. Then, incredibly, things got worse. T.R. badly cut his leg trying cross the river in order to free two jammed canoes. His injury led to an infection, which led to a fever. Near death, he pleaded with his son to leave him behind to die, but Kermit refused. In the end, T.R. of course finished the journey, albeit 60-pounds lighter.

HE WAS BLINDED IN ONE EYE DURING A BOXING MATCH

Roosevelt’s love of boxing can be traced back to his Harvard roots, where he competed as a light heavyweight with moderate success. His exploits at Harvard were legendary. He continued to box he was the New York City Police Commissioner, the Governor of NY, and the President of the United States, because who the hell was going to tell Teddy Roosevelt he couldn’t? His last boxing match came in 1908, when a young military aide who had been invited to spar at the White House landed a devastating punch that dislocated Roosevelt’s left retina, leaving him mostly blind in that eye for life. Didn’t slow him down for a second.

HE GAVE HIS 9-YEAR OLD SON A WILD BADGER AS A PET. OH, AND ALSO A WILD HYENA

Annnnnd, there it is.

Because what else would Teddy Roosevelt give his son? Yessir, Archie was just 9-years old when his father decided it would be appropriate to give him a wild badger as a pet. Josiah the badger was supposedly quick to anger but had a “good heart” according to T.R. According to young Archie: “He bites legs sometimes, but he never bites faces.” Good to know! Other Roosevelt family pets included Bill the Lizard, a quintet guinea pigs named Admiral Dewey, Dr. Johnson, Bishop Doane, Fighting Bob Evans, and Father O’Grady, Maude the Pig, a blue macaw named Eli Yale, a hen Baron Spreckle, an owl because why not, a rabbit named Peter, Algonquin the family pony, and of course they had this – an actual wild hyena.

AT 58-YEARS OLD HE VOLUNTEERED TO LEAD A REGIMENT INTO WORLD WAR I

At the outbreak of World War I, the 58-year-old ex-president was eager to return to the front lines. If this surprises you then you haven’t been paying attention. Roosevelt vehemently lobbied President Woodrow Wilson to send him to France at the head of a 200,000-man expeditionary force. Around the country, supporters of the hero of San Juan Hill staged rallies of support, but Roosevelt would not get called to fight in the war that eventually claimed his son Quentin, who was killed in action when his plane was shot down over France in 1918. It’s a damn shame he was turned down, because I’m pretty sure the war would have ended a lot sooner.

So there ya go. And hey, I never even mentioned his exploits as leader of the legendary Rough Riders. Anyway, early 1900s? That was when men were men and Teddy Roosevelt was either batshit crazy or a bona-fide American badass. I’m thinking he was a little of the former and a lot of the latter.

Harold, Max & Me

What you’re about to read is a story I’ve been telling for a long, long time. If you’re one of my former students, what follows may ring a bell. It’s a crazy story, but it happened. I was there . . .

It the summer of what, 1966? ’67? I can’t be sure. What I am sure of is it was a warm summer afternoon in Bourneville, Ohio, and I was with my two buddies Harold and Max. Some background is required here, however.

While I was around 10 or 11-years old, Harold was a little older, I’d say 15 or 16 and BIG for his age. As I recall, Harold had no neck to speak of, his head just sort of rested on his shoulders. In addition, Harold was, uh, a little slow. He also had a speech impediment. Someone told me he didn’t have a roof in his mouth. I don’t want to be insensitive here, but try talking without touching your tongue to the roof of your mouth. Not easy. Suffice it to say Harold was difficult to understand, but those of us close to him sort of knew what he was saying.

Sort of.

Max? Max was my age, small for his age and a Bourneville tough guy. I can never remember him not smoking, he always had a cig in his mouth from the day I met him, which was when we were probably around 6-years old. Not even kidding by the way. Max could whip any kid’s butt and was a con-artist deluxe. He’d have his friend’s mothers eating out of his hand, then turn around and cuss like a sailor around the rest of the kids in Bourneville.

Me? I wasn’t the best kid in the world, sort of a punk that could hang with the good and bad kids alike, which led to me being with Harold and Max on the summer day in the late 60s. What happened is etched in my brain forever . . .

You know where the Dairy Hut is located in Bourneville? That lot used to be the home of a beautiful church. That’s neither here nor there, it’s just that I really miss that church. Anyway, on the day in question Harold and I were sitting on our bicycles in the gravel parking lot of said church. I was probably doing the talking and Harold was, well, probably just nodding and grunting. Thinking back, he was sort of an ideal friend for me, ya know? Good listener. Anyway, as I recall Harold and I were on little bikes with sissy bars on the back and butterfly handlebars out front, both popular on bikes at the time. I think mine had a leopard skin banana seat, which was the epitome of cool, trust me. Now that I think about it, it probably says a lot about Harold that he was maybe 16-years old, riding a 20-inch bike and hanging out with an 11-year old. Incidentally, Harold was so big he looked like one of those bears at the circus that had been taught to ride a bicycle. Just giving you a visual. Remember . . . big, no neck, tiny bike. But let’s move on.

As Harold and I are sitting there, Max rolls around the corner on a new bike. Well, not new but different. It was an older model 10-speed, which none of the kids in Bourneville owned or had ever seen, therefore making it unique and cool. According to Max he had bought it for a cool $12 from a cousin in faraway Good Hope, Ohio, which is actually not that far away but for me, at the time had might as well have been Jupiter. Anywho, as soon as Max rolls to a stop he begins singing the praises of the 10-speed Huffy he’d obtained, complete with hand brakes and skinny tires, which seemed very European to me at the time. When Max explained you didn’t brake the bike with the pedals but with the handbrakes we were amazed. I also remember it had those curved-under handlebars that seemed exotic as heck to a kid on a bike with tassles hanging from his handlebar grips. In addition, I may or may not have had a flag attached to my rear axle and flying 10-feet over my banana seat.

As we sat there chatting, it became apparent that Harold was totally enamored with Max’s bike. He was dying to take it for a spin. Alas, after a lot of begging from Harold, Max reluctantly relented.

Little did I know it was a set-up all along.

Max proceeded to tell Harold that sure, he could take the bike a spin, but if he was serious he REALLY needed to experience the speed of the bike. In fact, Max said, Harold should take it up to the top of the hill in front of Twin School and really get a run, see how fast that sucker could fly.

Of course, Harold complied.

Max and I moved out to the side of the road to watch as Harold rode to the top of the hill, turned around, stopped, turned his hat around backwards, and gave us the thumbs up from on high. He then kicked off and began to pedal furiously as he started down the hill. All I could see was the top of his head and his knees pumping as he picked up speed.

Midway down the hill Harold was smokin’. That bike was burnin’ rubber, man, and I gotta say I was impressed. At that point I glanced over at Max, who had commandeered Harold’s little bike. Oddly, Max was smiling. I asked him what was up. Max’s answer, which in my mind will live in infamy?

“That bike ain’t got no brakes.”

Well, technically it had brakes, they just didn’t work. Good God.

Meanwhile Harold was drawing closer to us, Route 50, and beyond.

I guess Harold was probably 100 feet from the highway when he first hit the hand brakes. The look of horror on his face said it all. Nothing. He then tried the pedal brakes, which didn’t work because they didn’t exist. I do recall this resulted in him hilariously pedaling backwards, frantically attempting to slow the bike.

At this point I remember thinking that Harold had two choices. Number one, he could go straight across Route 50 and hope for the best. If he made it across without getting steamrolled by an 18-wheeler he could cut between the Post Office and Homer Ward’s gas station, eventually crashing into the corn field beyond those two buildings and probable safety. Option number two was to ditch the bike in the church parking lot and take his chances. I mean, it was a gravel parking lot, but still.

As Harold flew by me and a maniacally grinning Max, neither of us knew what option Harold would choose. As fate and Harold’s brain would have it, neither option was chosen. Harold had other ideas.

Harold decided he could make the turn.

As he leaned the speeding bike into the turn, for a brief second I actually believed he was going to make it. The 10-speed was leaning hard towards the ground, tires squealing as they bit into the asphalt. Harold had a grim determination on his face and dang it, I thought he was going to make that turn.

To this day I believe he would have made it . . .

If it wasn’t for the car.

Yep, at the moment Harold was attempting the near-impossible turn, he veered j-u-s-t a tad into the right-hand lane of Highway 50, the Coast-to-Coast Highway, from Ocean City, Maryland to Sacramento, California. As fate would have it at that very moment a 1958 Chevy Impala driven by an elderly couple from Cincinnati was innocently passing through our lazy town. Now, I wouldn’t say the old folks hit Harold. I would say, however, that he hit them.

The passenger side window was down, and I can’t imagine what went through the old lady’s mind when Harold came crashing into her world. I mean, one minute she’s enjoying a nice drive on a lazy summer day with the love of her life, the next a crazed no-necked beast on a 10-speed is slamming into the family sedan.

It wasn’t a t-bone, more of a sideswipe, and I saw it all clearly.

Harold hit the car, and stuff just flew everywhere, including Harold. I truly believed in my heart he was dead. Harold bounced off, the bike veered off to the right, and the car went on before pulling off a bit up the road.

Max and I sped up to the carnage, expecting the worst. Here’s what I saw:

• Harold was alive but stunned, sitting and leaning against a fence. He was otherwise unhurt, but his left pant leg was missing in action. Oh yeah, and he’d peed his pants.
• Max’s bike was missing a front tire (it was later found a couple hundred yards up the street in some bushes), its left pedal, and the left handlebar. The left handlebar was later found inside the old couple’s car.
• I also noticed Harold was holding something in his hand. It was the Impala’s sideview mirror.

As I stood there inspecting the wreckage, the elderly couple cautiously made their way back to the expected bloodshed. They were totally confused, oblivious as to what had happened. Hell had come calling on a beautiful summer day. The conversation as I remember it was as follows:

Old Woman: “Son, are you OK? We didn’t see you! Where did you come from? We are so sorry.”

They totally thought it was their fault.

Harold: “Umgh ah ite I hink.”

Max: “Oh my God! He can’t talk! What have you people done?”

Oh good Lord.

At that point I actually became the voice of reason and explained to the couple that Harold couldn’t, in fact, talk before the accident and they weren’t in any way responsible for his lack of eloquence. Also, the stuff on his pants was pee, not blood. I think.

After a few minutes of assurances that Harold wouldn’t sue, the old folks went nervously on their way, but not before giving Harold $20, a princely sum for a Bourneville kid in the late 60s.

After we collected the bike parts and carted everything back to Max’s house, I rode back home accompanied by a shaken, one pant-legged Harold. Before we parted ways I asked him what he was going to do with the 20 bucks. His reply? He’d given it to Max in exchange for destroying his bike.

So Max, whose diabolical plan was responsible for the catastrophe, not only got a huge kick out of the whole affair but walked away with 20 big ones, a handsome $8 profit.

Just another day in the 1960s in beautiful downtown Bourneville, Ohio.

Have You Heard Of The Bolton Strid?

Yeah, me either, until yesterday. Anyway, the Bolton Strid is pretty amazing. Also scary. But let’s get to it . . .

Quite simply, the Bolton Strid is the most dangerous stretch of water in the world. Seemingly quaint little section of the Yorkshire River in Northern England, it’s is only 6-feet wide but it’s unfathomably deep and known by locals to have a 100% mortality rate. Yikes. That seems like a lot.

Note: A strid is a narrow ravine or gorge, but you knew that.

The river is the kind of idyllic place that’s perfect for a romantic dip or perhaps a leisurely walk with your dog. It winds and weaves past tall trees, rocky beaches and bright green moss-covered boulders for 65-miles. However, the river also has a notorious history fit for a horror movie – the section called the Bolton Strid. The waters there as so treacherous here that should someone slip in it’s unlikely they’ll ever reemerge. Yep, of all the people who have fallen into the Bolton Strid, many of their bodies have never been recovered.

Why, you ask? Well, loyal Shoe: Untied readers, I shall tell you. You see, above the mouth of the Bolton Strid the river is about 30-feet wide and the water flows tranquil and easy. But thanks to a bizarre geological formation, the river is abruptly squeezed at the Bolton Strid, funneling hundreds of gallons of water through a tiny 6-foot channel. As a result, the water travels faster and thrashes side to side, up, down, and every which way, causing whirlpools to arise that can quickly suck a human under. It looks shallow from the surface, but underneath it is a vast network of caves and crevices of sedimentary rock that will rip apart a human body in seconds. Good times!

Our crack staff here at Shoe: Untied, after exhaustive research, found this charming poem about the Strid written by William Wordsworth (great name for a poet by the way). It’s about a kid who attempted to jump across the Strid and well, didn’t make it. Check it out:

And what may now forbid
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,
Shall bound across THE STRID?
He sprang in glee, – for what cared he
That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep?…
The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,
And strangled by a merciless force;
For never more was young Romilly seen
Till he rose a lifeless corpse.

Holy . . .

To conclude, if you ever happen to be in Northern England near Bolton and decide to take a stroll on the banks of the Yorkshire River, do so with caution. That one little 6-foot wide strip of water’s calm, quiet appearance belies its raging, deadly underbelly.

You have been warned.

The Story of The Jigger

Before I begin, you should know that I love old gymnasiums. When I go to towns in other states I’ve been known to walk into random high schools and ask to see their gymnasium. I love to look at the photos on the walls, learn the history of their teams, everything. Weird? Maybe. I love old gyms, man. But let us begin . . .

For those of you who don’t know, “The Jigger” is the name of the gymnasium in which I used to coach. How it got that name will be told shortly, but let’s start at the beginning . . .

Back in the  late 1950’s, two local high schools, Twin and Bainbridge, decided to consolidate into one high school. Twin’s athletic teams were the Tigers and wore the colors blue and gold. Bainbridge? They were the Polar Bears and wore orange and black. The two schools were heated rivals, so the consolidation had to be handled delicately. In fact, much discussion took place as to where the new school would even be built. It was finally decided, wisely, that the school would be built halfway between the towns where Twin and Bainbridge schools were located, Bourneville (home of Twin High School) and Bainbridge (the home of Bainbridge High School). As for the school name and the school colors, a combination was decided upon. The new school would be called Paint Valley (after the beautiful valley in which it was located), black would be borrowed from Bainbridge’s black and orange, and gold would be taken from Twin’s blue and gold. Thus was born Paint Valley’s black and gold. But what about a mascot? Bainbridge was the Polar Bears and Twin was the Tigers. Bears and cats. Ah. Somewhere, a light went on in somebody’s head, and the PAINT VALLEY BEARCATS were born.

And you know what? It was perfect.

Soon after, a gymnasium was built. And it was not an ordinary gymnasium. In an era of small, 300-400 seat gyms, Paint Valley’s sparkling new gym was a crown jewel among Southern Ohio gyms. It seated 1,300 people, a rarity for its time. For years, many post-season tournaments were held there.

As a kid, I attended many events in this amazing gymnasium. My father took me to games, and I have distinct memories of watching Coach Oral Crabtree’s great teams play there. Legendary players like Stacey Thompson, Mike Everhart, Mike Haas, and Mike Kinnamon all played there. SVC and Ross County League championships were won.

I even remember watching my sister’s boyfriend play there, a player by the name of Donald Anderson. His nickname? Jigger. But more on that later as well.

I recall attending sectional and district basketball games there too, and I loved it. My Dad and I always sat in the top section on the home side, dead center, and I was mesmerized by the place. The smell, the sounds, everything about it fascinated me.

Later, when I attended Paint Valley, I had the honor of playing in that same gymnasium in which I had sat years before. Even then I felt I was playing in a special place, the coolest gym in our league. There was something about the feel of the place. It actually seemed to have a personality of its own, ya know?

Later I ended up becoming a teacher and basketball coach, and the very first game in which I coached took place in the very gym I loved so much. It was just junior high basketball, but it meant so much to me to be coaching in that facility. After that first year I left to coach and teach at another school, and for 7-years I never set foot in the gymnasium I’d grown to love so much.

As fate would have it, however, I was hired to coach at my former school and in the gym I loved dearly. I remember my first game back, in the Fall of 1988, and I immediately knew I was home. It felt so comfortable to be there, so . . . right.

For the next 8-years I coached in that gym, and no matter where we played I always thought our gym was better than any other. And by the way, the man who hired me to be the head basketball coach was Donald “Jigger” Anderson, now my sister’s husband and the same guy I watched play back in the late 60’s. And during all my years coaching at Paint Valley, there had been no bigger supporter of Paint Valley basketball than Jigger.

I resigned from my coaching job after the 1996 season, and a couple months later our school suffered a major blow – Jigger passed away. He was such a integral part of our school that his death affected everyone.  He meant that much to everybody affiliated with Paint Valley High School, and it was a difficult time for all of us.

In the Fall of 1997 I was hired as Athletic Director at Paint Valley, and in 2001 our school underwent a major renovation. A junior high and elementary building was built beside our existing high school, and my beloved gymnasium was to undergo a complete renovation as well.

The original plans called for new plastic bleachers to replace the old wooden ones, plexiglass to replace the old iron railings, and the red brick on each side of our stage to be painted white to match the walls.

Nah, that wouldn’t do, now would it? I felt our gym somehow had to be renovated, but in a way that kept its old school feel. Its integrity if you will. Hell, it’s personality. It’s character.

Luckily, we had a Superintendent who felt the same way. As it turned out, we opted for wooden bleachers, wrought iron railings, and we kept the red brick on each side of our stage. A balcony on the visitor’s side was added, and somehow, someway, we kept the feel of the original gymnasium. Old school, baby, and it looked fantastic.

On January 12th, 2002, in a special ceremony, we officially dedicated our newly renovated gymnasium. It was named Donald “Jigger” Anderson gymnasium, after the man who meant so much to our school, our teachers, our students and our sports teams.

“The Jigger” was born.

And today, 22-years later and in an era of new, antiseptic, lifeless, and cookie-cutter gyms without character, I believe ours still stands out. We maintained the integrity of the original, and it was worth it.

On the wall next to the place where Jigger used to stand at every game, there hangs a plaque. It explains why our gym carries his name, and I touch it every time I walk past it. I know he’d be proud that we kept the integrity of the gym he loved so much.

To this day, on any given morning, I take a long look around as I walk into the empty gym. I take it all in. I do the same when I’m the last to leave at night. I have so many great memories of games, teams, moments, and players there. And yes, memories of Jigger. It’s an amazing feeling really, a feeling that I can’t get anywhere else.

And I don’t think that feeling will ever go away. 

How do I know what Sparky wants for Christmas? Because he told me.

Seriously. He told me.

Listen, I expect approximately 9-people who read this to believe me, and those are all dog-loving freaks such as myself. I could literally name the people right now who will respond and say as much. As for the rest of you, I know you’ll think I’m out of my mind, and I won’t blame you a bit.

As anyone who lives alone with a dog can tell you, after awhile you begin treating your dog like a human. By the way, is that an oxymoron or what? You can’t live alone if you have a dog. Anyway, most of the stuff is normal, like, “Do you want to go outside?” or “Do you want a treat?” You know, regular  things you say to a dog.

However, when it’s just you and the dog I think you sort of take your communication up a notch.

For instance, I’ve actually made the following comments to Sparky with a straight face:

“Stay here Spark. I’m going to go throw a load in the washer.”

“Spark, can give me your thoughts on the European Debt Crisis?”

“Well, what did you think, Spark? Should I ask her out again?”

You know, stuff like that. I respect Spark’s opinion, especially regarding that last one. But seriously, if you listen, really pay attention and listen, your dog will talk to you. They’ll give you clues with certain mannerisms and actions.

Keep this in mind as I recount my latest Sparky Experience. This morning I was in the bedroom getting dressed. The TV was on, a commercial came on that for some reason reminded me of Christmas. Just making conversation, I said, “Christmas is in a couple weeks Spark. What do you want this year?”

Sparky then looks at me, cocks his head, and runs over to a basket on the other side of the room where we keep his toys. Then he digs to the bottom and pulls something out. The next thing I see in front of me is this:

Look into those eyes. Spark knows.

That’s the squeaky snowman I gave Spark for Christmas last year. This actually happened. I just sat there with my mouth open, looking at him.

Like I said, he told me what he wants for Christmas.

I know there are a lot of people who scoff at us dog lovers and our stories of how smart our pooches are, but I’d like one of the skeptics to step up and explain this one. Did the word “Christmas” set off something in his brain? Had to, right? Somehow, he made the connection.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go do some Christmas shopping.

The Craziest Game

Not from that night, but pretty damn close.

Back in 1991 I was in my second year coaching varsity basketball. We had a really good team and we were playing another really good team from another league. Due to what occurred that night I’ll try and leave our opponent’s name out of the story. However, if you were there that night you’ll never forget what went down . . .

Like I said, we were a very good team that year, as we had been the year prior. We were about to play a team we’d beaten the year before, but they’d improved and really, really wanted to avenge that loss.

How badly? We had no idea.

Oblivious to what was waiting for us, we prepared for the game like any other. Game day arrived and we made the bus trip over the hills, into the next county and into our opponent’s gym.

Upon walking in though, we knew something was different. Although the reserve game was just getting started, the place was packed. In those days a full gym wasn’t that surprising though.

However, the emotionally charged atmosphere that hit us as we walked inside was an eye-opener.

As the home crowd stood and booed lustily, we looked around and there were signs everywhere. Some were of the generic variety, some decidedly not.

The gym we were in was pretty small, with maybe 15-18 rows one one side and a set of bleachers on the stage. On a related note, the crowd was decidedly 95% anti-Bearcats. We had a faction of small, but mighty and boisterous, fans in one corner of that stage.

It was then, as we were walking into the gym and towards our locker rooms, that I noticed a sign. Here’s what it read:

“WELCOME TO THE NASTY PLACE”

Uh . . . oh. Where had I heard that before? And then it hit me. After we’d beaten this team the year before, one of my quotes in the paper was this:

“I was glad to get out of there with a win. That’s a nasty place to play.”

I’ll swear to the day I die I never meant that comment as an insult to our opponent’s small gym. What I meant was that it was a tough place to win because they always had hard-nosed, well-coached teams with loud, loyal crowds. That’s what I’d meant by nasty.

Really, that’s what I meant.

At this point, however? Too late for explanations. I’d insulted their gym, their team, their school, and apparently their entire community, which incidentally was there en masse that night.

We went down to our locker room, which was at the bottom of some stairs under the bleachers. As we dressed we could hear the roar of the crowd, even during the reserve game.

The place was electric.

Eventually we took the floor, of course to loud boos and taunting from the crowd.

As the game progressed, the atmosphere only became more intense. The score was close throughout, which only ratcheted up the intensity. Objects were thrown from the crowd, usually at me, which to my recollection included pennies, candy (my managers loved that), and anything else folks could get their hands on.

At one point the game was stopped and an administrator made an announcement, something along these lines:

“Listen, no matter what the other coach said about our school, please try and stop throwing things at him.”

I swear it was something like that. Probably not the best choice of words, because they only amped the crowd up more.

And man, if you’d have heard some of the things being yelled at me from behind our bench your jaw would have hit the floor.

Anyway, as we entered the last quarter we were in trouble. We trailed a very talented team whose crowd wanted a win very badly. With around 5:00 remaining, we were down by 10-points.

But then, thanks to a timeout followed by a furious full court press, we made a run. Did I mention we had three of the best little defensive guards in the league in Todd Shoemaker, Casey McFadden, and Roman Diekan? All three were 5-10 and they would get after you defensively.

Not only that, they feared nobody. Not even hundreds of angry fans giving them Holy Hell from the bleachers. Shoot, it made my guys play harder.

Bottom line, we held our opponents scoreless the last 5:00 of the game, and eventually forced overtime. It was on.

As we readied for the overtime tip, the din of the crowd was deafening. But the real fun was about to commence.

The Bearcats got the tip, and it was then we made the decision to hold the ball.

Yep, you read that right. We decided hold the ball and go for the last shot.

Hey, we had three of the best guards, defenders and ballhandlers in the Scioto Valley Conference, we were playing in a hostile (to put it mildly) environment, so why not hold it and go for the win?

And that’s exactly what we did.

Todd, Roman and Casey dribbled and passed their way through the overtime, running a weave out front as our opponents tried desperately to regain possession of the basketball.

Wasn’t happening, man. And as you can imagine, this only amped up the tension higher with the crowd, if that were possible.

We burned the clock in that spread offense until there were about 5-seconds left, when Todd Shoemaker rifled a no-look, bullet pass from the top of the key to 6′-5″ sophomore (and future 1st Team All-Ohioan) Craig Kerns under the basket. Kerns was immediately fouled on the wide-open layup, giving him two free throws with 1-second remaining in the tied game.

It was then we called a timeout, and I told Craig to make the first shot (I had no doubt he would) and miss the second, giving the other team no time to get the rebound and call their own timeout and attempt a last second prayer of a play.

As Craig was lining up for the first shot, I saw Todd walk up from beyond the 3-point line and whisper something to him. He actually had his hands cupped over his mouth as he whispered in Craig’s ear. In retrospect I should have known something was up. Alas, in the heat of the moment I did not.

So, Craig made the first to put us up 1 and missed the second as directed. An opposing player grabbed the rebound threw up a desperation shot that missed, and we’d pulled off the big comeback win under very difficult circumstances.

One of the incredible final stats was that we held a very good team, including the last quarter and overtime, to zero points over the last 9-minutes of the game.

As I started to go over to shake hands with the opposing coach, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. As I turned to look, I saw Todd and Craig running towards the opposite wall. Then I saw them rip a particularly offensive sign off the wall.

Uh-oh. So that’s what they’d been talking about.

I can’t say it was the best decision they’d ever made, but they’d also been suffering through some pretty intense verbal abuse the entire game. Did I condone it? No. Did I understand it? Yes I did.

At that point, well, all hell broke loose.

People poured onto the floor and fights seemed to be breaking out everywhere.

My assistant coaches, Daron Myers and Pete Hollon among them, were fending off people trying to get at me, and at one point formed a circle around me as we attempted to get our team to the locker room.

I remember that Craig’s father Brad, our film guy, forgo the ladder that led to his little crow’s nest where he’d been filming and basically jumped down to join the fray.

Finally, we made it downstairs to the locker room. Once there, we could hear people at the top of the steps yelling nasty things down to us. A group of our parents actually stood guard at the top of the stairs. I told my players to sit tight, that we’d have to wait this out until things calmed down. Soon after that, a local policeman came to tell us the same thing, that they were calling in some more enforcement to clear the gym.

My players didn’t even change into their street clothes. They just sat there waiting to be told what to do next.

Over an hour later the gym was eventually cleared, but a lot of people were still waiting for us in the parking lot. Soon, a plan was hatched. Our bus left the lot it was parked in and was brought around to the other side of the school. With a large group of our fans forming a tunnel, we snuck out through a side door and boarded our bus.

What happened next seems surreal even today. After we were all seated, the Sheriff of the county we were playing in got on the bus, stood at the front, and said this:

“You fellas better keep  your heads down until you get out of _______ County.”

Yep. That actually happened. I have witnesses.

On a related note, do you know how you can tell you have loyal assistant coaches? When, after hearing what the local sheriff just said, you have this discussion with one of them:

Coach Myers: “Coach, switch places with me.”

Me: “Why?“

Coach Myers: “You’d better get away from the window. They’ll be aiming for you.”

That’s loyalty, folks.

As we pulled out we were escorted, front and back, by several cars and trucks from Paint Valley. Behind our fans, in the back, followed a lot of cars that were not from Ross County. When we crossed into Ross County, those cars turned around and went back from whence they came.

You may not be surprised to learn that I got several phone calls the next day, most from angry fans threatening to beat my ass but with a few death threats thrown in for fun as well.

Good times, huh?

Our twice yearly regular season games with that opponent were cancelled for the foreseeable future, although the very next year we happened to draw them in the sectional tournament. Again, they couldn’t beat us.

Thank God it was on a neutral court.

Update: I found the article and figured I may as well include it. Most people know where the game was played anyway. Here ya go.

Note: Folks from the school and opponent in question will most certainly have a different perspective regarding what happened that night, and they are certainly welcome to chime in if they feel the need.

When Rock Shows Go Off the Rails

There are few things I like to do more than watch a live rock concert. Something about the energy, the whole vibe, just seeing someone performing music you love up close and in person is amazing.

I’ve been to hundreds of concerts in my life, and I’ve witnessed some crazy stuff. It’s always a special treat when things go off the rails a little though, ya know?

Without further ado, here’s some of the weirdest stuff I’ve seen at live shows . . .

Westerberg, man.

About 10-years ago I went to see Paul Westerberg at The Newport in Columbus, and it was a helluva show. The former front man for the legendary Replacements was outstanding, man. so much so that a friend of mine said this after the show:

“That’s the first time I ever felt like I was watching a real rock star.”

Amen, brother. Anyway, Westerberg was all over the stage, even laying on his back at one point as he played guitar, and performed all the good stuff as well as some offbeat covers such as “If I Had a Hammer” and “Daydream Believer”. But on to my point. About halfway through the show Westerberg was having some sort of trouble with his guitar strap and stopped to fix it. A roadie walked onstage to try and help, and Paul became unhinged. He turned and screamed, “Get the FU@K away from me!” The poor dude then sort of shuffled backwards off the stage, the venue got deathly quiet for a few seconds, and the Westerberg went back to the song as if nothing happened. Weird moment.

Dude loves his tambourine.

A couple years ago I was at a Gin Blossoms show in Columbus, and lead singer Robin Wilson handed his tambourine to a woman in the front row. I’d seen these guys a couple times before and knew it was part of the shtick, that the audience member would play it for awhile and hand it back to Wilson. This time, however, the idiot lady took it and vamoosed. As the band watched incredulously, Wilson finished the song and then lit into the tambourine thief, screaming something along the lines of, “You f**cking b**tch! Bring back my f**cking tambourine!” Dude was livid, man. Must have been his special tambourine or something. I mean, I know the Blossoms are 20-years passed their heyday but I figured they could afford more than one tambourine.

Note: I looked it up. They can cost up to $200 and more. Yikes.

Note 2: Who can’t play a tambourine? I mean really? I’d kill on a tambourine. Hell, I may buy a tambourine and join a band.

Back in the late 90s I went to see Dan Fogelberg. Yes, I liked Fogelberg. I’ve seen him a few times. So shoot me. Soft Rock never hurt anyone. Don’t judge, people. Besides, he’s dead now so you’re just being mean. Anywho, the opening band had finished and Fogelberg walked out to thunderous applause. He sat down at the piano, played a few notes, then slammed his hands on the keys and scared the bejesus out of everyone. Then got up and stormed off the stage. As we sat there in stunned silence, some poor roadie walked sheepishly out on the stage, played a few notes as he tuned (or retuned) the piano, then got up and walked/crawled/slithered back from whence he came. Then ol’ Dan came back out like nothing had happened and without  word of apology sat down and proceeded to play a blistering version of “Leader of the Band”, except not really because it’s a slow ballad. Anyway, surreal moment.

E.

I’ve seen The Eels several times, and lead singer Mark Oliver Everett is always a laid back guy. He interacts with the audience but he’s always really light-hearted and funny. However, even The Man Called E can be pushed over the edge. Well, sort of. A few years ago some jackass kept yelling at the top of his lungs during an Eels show. I mean this was going on during songs, during E’s talking and during quiet intervals. Finally, E had enough. He looked up to where the guy was in the balcony, took a deep breath, and said calmly, “Hey Screamy. If you don’t shut the hell up I’ve having you thrown the f**ck out of here.” Crowd roars, Screamy shuts up, problem solved.

Back around 1979 I watched Aerosmith in the Fairgrounds Coliseum in Columbus, Ohio. This was the infamous show where I ended up backstage on a couch with Steven Tyler and Joe Perry. Oh, and photos were taken, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, during that show I distinctly recall Steven and Joe nearly brawling onstage. No idea what caused it, but at one point I was fairly certain Perry was going to beat Tyler over the head with his 1960 Gibson Les Paul geetar. Good times.

At some point a bit before The Who tragedy at Riverfront Coliseum (my dates are a little fuzzy) I saw Led Zeppelin there. The whole festival seating/general admission thing was obviously in place, and it was pretty ugly. We got there real early, around 2:00 PM in order to get in line. The coliseum’s policy at the time was to open just 4 doors at around 6:30 PM (again, hazy) for the 8:00 show. We were right up front, and a little after 5:00 PM things began to get ugly. Remember, 4-doors for 12,000 people. Idiocy. People in the back began pressing forward and those of us in front were getting crushed against the doors. Guys were begging the security inside to open up, but they weren’t listening. A police chopper suddenly appeared and began hovering about 30-feet up, and a guy with a bullhorn was telling people to back up. Nobody was having it, and at one point I remember a beer bottle being thrown at the chopper and shattering off its side. By this time I was seriously in fear of not making it out of there. My arms were pressed against my sides so tightly that I couldn’t raise them. Occasionally my feet would rise off the ground and I’d have to completely go wherever the crowd took me. Scary stuff for sure. The worst part was when the crowd would start to lean and you feared getting crushed. It was hard to breathe and several people passed out but obviously didn’t fall down. Surreal as hell. Finally, an ignorant security guard did a dumb but ultimately good thing – he cracked a door open, ostensibly to tell somebody when the gates would open. At that point the door was ripped open and the crowd poured in. Glass was flying everywhere, and as I was being pushed through a guard reached out and ripped a flask from my neck, nearly slashing my throat. No tickets were taken and chaos ensued. After I got away from the rushing crowd, I sought out a cop and yelled, “If these people don’t start opening more doors somebody’s going to get killed here!” A prophetic statement, unfortunately. When the news came down months later that 11-people were killed at The Who show, I wasn’t surprised. I knew exactly what had taken place. Oh, and by the way, I scored a front row spot. Hey, it was Zep.

Speaking of that Who concert, yes, we had tickets. I know, I know, probably a million people claim they had tickets, but I did. It was my birthday and Tom, Andy and I were supposed to go to Cincinnati.  At the last minute I found out there was going to be a surprise party for me in Chillicothe, and the rest is history.

I once attended the “Frampton Comes Alive” tour,  a huge outdoor show in Florida. There were several bands before Frampton, and one of them was Kansas, of “Dust in the Wind” fame. They came out and it was clear from the get-go they were tanked. Just smashed, drunk and/or high as hell. Midway through song two they just turned and walked off the stage. The crowd basically rioted until something pretty cool happened. Rick Derringer, who had played a short set earlier, returned to the stage and started playing. Slowly the crowd got into it and eventually he was actually playing requests. That’s a true pro right there, and he saved everyone from a potentially nasty situation. When Frampton finally came out he thanked Derringer profusely and even called him back out for an encore. I’ll always have fond memories of Rick Derringer because of that day.

You see, rock shows, as in life, don’t always unfold as you might expect them to. And that what makes it fun, right?

If You Haven’t Heard Of August Landmesser It’s A Damn Shame

I came across this photo the other day, and I have to say it fascinates me endlessly. It’s a photo taken at a rally in Nazi Germany in 1936, and Adolph Hitler himself is speaking to the fawning, cheering crowd. I’m sure a lot of people were showing enthusiastic support for Der Fuhrer because they believed in him, others because they were terrified to show any type of negative reaction.

Well, almost everyone:

Check him out. Not only is this guy not doing the Nazi Salute at a Nazi Rally in which Hitler was speaking, he actually has his arms crossed and seems to be thinking, “I ain’t buying this bullshit.”  You realize, folks, that this could have gotten him killed, correct? But guess what? He wasn’t skeered.

Think about this – this guy had the balls to attend a rally full of full-blown Nazis, with Hitler right in front of him, and he’s defying all of them. Talk about not succumbing to peer pressure, eh?

And we know who this guy was. His name was August Landmesser, and he was later arrested for attempting to marry a woman who was part Jewish. Yes, kids, he was arrested for attempted marriage. Anyway, neither he or the woman he loved survived the war, but they did have children who later recognized their brave father in this photo.

My friends, you are looking at a certified, bonafied badass if there ever was one.

Although Mr. Landmesser never survived Hitler, this photograph will forever be a tribute to a man who had the courage to stand tall for what he believed in despite overwhelming odds.

And so, I give to you one more photo of my new hero – Mr. August Landmesser, the man who faced the most evil dictator in the history of the world with a look of absolute disdain.

UPDATE: I thought I’d add this, a more complete rundown of August’s life:

On June 13th, 1936, this hero named August Landmesser was working at the Blohm + Voss shipyard in in Hamburg, Germany. When you read his story, you’ll never forget him.

In the 1930s, the fascist mania for Hitler’s regime instituted a law making the infamous “sieg heil” hail victory salute mandatory for Germans.

One German named August Landmesser, seen here in this powerful photo, refused to obey. His incredible story is one of great courage, sacrifice, and horrific loss in the name of love.

Landmesser joined the Nazi Party in 1931. But it was the only legal political affiliation one could have in Germany at the time, so he had little choice. In a few years time, August met the love of his life, Irma Eckler. The only problem was that Erma was Jewish in a time when bigotry in the country was beginning to rage.

By 1935, August proposed to Irma. After the engagement was discovered by Nazi Party officials, he was expelled from the party. But that did not stop them, as they decided to file a marriage application in another city, but because of the Nuremberg Laws the couple were denied. Undeterred by hate, and confident their love could overcome, the August and Irma had their first daughter, Ingrid, in October 1935.

On June 13, 1936, Landmesser gave his defiant crossed-arm stance during Hitler’s christening of a new German navy vessel with his 9 month old daughter and beloved Irma at home.

The Landmessers attempted to flee Germany for Denmark in 1937 after their second daughter was born. However disaster struck when the family was captured and detained at the border. August was charged with Rassenschande or “dishonoring the race,” under the Nuremberg Laws, but was acquitted a year later. The government, however, instructed August to stop seeing his wife.

Landmesser courageously disobeyed the evil dictates of the Nazi officials, and was arrested again in 1938 and sentenced to Börgermoor Penal Camp. He never saw his family again.

The Gestapo secret police arrested a pregnant Irma. She was moved around to several internment camps: Oranienburg, Lichtenburg, and Ravensbrück. She gave birth to their daughter Irene in prison.

Irma was transferred from Ravensbrück to the Bernburg death camp in 1942, where she was led to the gas chamber along with thousands of others.

The two Landmesser daughters survived the holocaust because of the love and courage of numerous people, though suffered greatly under persecution and physical abuse in orphanages. The youngest, Irene, was amazingly and courageously rescued by a woman as her mates from her orphanage were all sent to be murdered by Nazis.

August was conscripted by the Nazis and presumed dead in 1945.

August’s stance represents not only the heroism of defiance against evil, but the toll that defiance can take. He and his family should always be celebrated as martyrs for love.

Finally, check out my new t-shirt: