101. hashke - July 11, 1999 - 4:38 PM PT
From the day of trucked-in arrival and the instantly bellowing drill instructors, it was -- 'get off that phucking truck you phucking shitbirds; -- to the daily routines --'fall in shitbirds'...'hit the rack shitbirds'...hit the deck shitbirds'. This language, and other techniques ,were meant to make us mad enough to kill not only the enemy, but anything in sight. I remember grinniing in a new recruit know-it-all-wise-ass way when I first jumped off the truck only to have a DI cram his eyeballs against mine and scream, 'you won't be smiling when you leave here, shitbird!!!' This baleful augury was confirmed by the shouts at us of Marines who were close to being shipped out -- 'you'll be sorry'!
(continued)
102. hashke - July 11, 1999 - 4:43 PM PT
There was other mysterious lingo, such as 'your other left, shitbird', 'that's your rifle, not your gun, shitbird', and 'don't gimme another maggie's drawers, you phucking shitbird'. These constant eruptions were spewed forth by two bemedaled veterans of Guadalcanal and Tarawa, each of whom had brought back from the pacific the pickled ears of the enemy in jars and displayed them prominently in their quarters for our 'edification'.
(continued)
103. hashke - July 11, 1999 - 4:52 PM PT
One day I smarted off to one of these guys and was yelled at to 'get your ass on the double over the CO!' The CO, a Major, told me to get my ass -- 'on the phucking double' -- over to the phucking Quartermaster, get a phucking lawnmower and mow every phucking lawn on Parris Island. It was that or the brig. So I spent my 'free time' that blazing July behind a phucking muscle-driven mower. The temperatures on Parris Island are up around 115 phucking degrees in the summer, but I got through it and soon left with my platoon for a furlough.
My big worry was that when I got home and was at the dinner table I would blurt out 'Please pass the phucking salt, Mom'.
(Finis)
104. uzmakk - July 11, 1999 - 6:10 PM PT
Sorry, Hashke.
105. robertjayb - July 11, 1999 - 7:14 PM PT
Hashke, it happened to a cousin of mine
when he came home from WWII. Of course,
mom, dad, and his sisters met the train
in his little central Texas hometown. When
they loaded up to head out to the farm, he
was invited to drive their '36 Chevrolet.
A few miles along the road he turned to
my uncle and said, "You know, Pa, this
phucking old car still runs pretty good."
106. robertjayb - July 11, 1999 - 7:16 PM PT
Hashke, it happened to a cousin of mine
when he came home from WWII. Of course,
mom, dad, and his sisters met the train
in his little central Texas hometown. When
they loaded up to head out to the farm, he
was invited to drive their '36 Chevrolet.
A few miles along the road he turned to
my uncle and said, "You know, Pa, this
phucking old car still runs pretty good."
107. joezan - July 11, 1999 - 7:44 PM PT
hashke:
Man, I love old bootcamp stories. My dad and I (he joined the AF in '54) were discussing just today the differences between bootcamp then and now. I guess now, the DI's aren't allowed to call you names. And, you get a second shot.
Yup. You can wash out, think it over awhile, and go back in.
How nice...
robertjayb:
My sister came back home with a great one after staying with our hillbilly cousins, when she was about 12 and our mom was in the hospital having back surgery. She'd been dropping little hillbilly-isms for weeks after she returned, and even tried to convince everyone she'd picked up the West Virginia accent during the 2 or 3 weeks she was there.
But after she was back a couple of weeks, our little brother was running through the kitchen with his head down, and accidentally rammed her.
"Ouch - that was mah twat, you li'l monster", she screamed in her best southern accent, in front of the whole family.
I'll never forget the look on my dad's face...
108. hashke - July 11, 1999 - 7:45 PM PT
uzmakk:
No problem. We were both typing at about the same time. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, but get your ph...ing ass over double ph...ing time to the CO...!!!!
;-))
109. hashke - July 11, 1999 - 7:50 PM PT
robertjayb:
Hahaha! That's a good one!
Just think of all the families after all the wars who were startled by such a sudden lapsus linguae coming from their peachy-clean, all-American boys.
110. hashke - July 11, 1999 - 8:50 PM PT
joezan:
In the muddle of that scorching summer they would run up the red flag on the parade ground at Parris Island, this to signify that it was forbidden to drill recruits because of the heat -- so our DIs would take us out behind the barracks where nobody would see us and drill our butts off. This was to build character.
This from Art Buchwald's amusing memoir, 'Leaving Home':
"The NCOs alternated between cussing and personal epithets. We were told to line up, and then were ordered to get on the bus and go home bcause we would never make effing Marines. They said that we were all bedwetters, and that we were dying to get back home and suck our mothers' tits...The DI has a singular role and that is to take raw recruits and turn them into fighting machines. He does this through threats, psychological terror, physical exercises, and hazing, which is only used when no one is looking. The whole process is built around fear."
111. PincherMartin - July 11, 1999 - 9:12 PM PT
Hashke --
Enjoyed your boot camp story. I can assure you that the Marine Drill Instructors in the eighties were every bit as tender in their kind regard for the recruits as they seem to have been in the forties.
112. jonesatlaw - July 11, 1999 - 9:40 PM PT
Haske- whenever I really pissed off my father as a child, he would revert to boot camp mode. I never served, but laughed my ass off at the begining of "Born to Kill" where they showed a movie version of boot camp in the old Corps. The DI sounded just like my father, although the language was worse. I just got the echoes of boot camp.
113. Jenerator - July 12, 1999 - 7:12 AM PT
Joe,
I am fortunate to be able to see my grandparents at least 1-3 times a year. Since my grandpa is in fabulous shape (walks 7 miles a day, eats fat-free, in bed by 8 pm up by 4am) I'm not worried about him. My grandmother is in decent shape and she's pretty feisty, so the two of them live well. I wish I could see them more often. My granpa's niece lives in London, so when I move there, they're planning an extended trip to see us both. I can't wait!;-)
114. hashke - July 12, 1999 - 12:20 PM PT
PincherMartin:
Thank you! It appears that you were in the Marines in the eighties. Were you at Parris Island? I, and others, would love to read some anecdotes or stories about your experiences in the Corps!
115. Jenerator - July 12, 1999 - 2:03 PM PT
PARTY NIGHT from my heathen days Pt.1
It was a typical Saturday night, and I was stuck at work (retail position). I was only about twenty one years old, so partying was my driving force in life. My best friend Lynn called me about 8 pm and said that she had heard about this killer party going on at the new club "The Lizard Lounge." Supposedly everybody and their dog was there, so we *had* to get in. The only catch was that it was an exclusive party, invitation only. Being resourceful, I told her to bring two black cocktail dresses, preferably wild and with some kind of ornamentation that looked somewhat dressy (sequins, etc.), that way, we'd at least look like we belonged there.
So, I got off of work at 9:30 pm and Lynne was waiting for me outside. I jumped in her car and we headed for Deep Ellum (dowtown Dallas). We both managed to change clothes in the car while she was driving. Thankfully, no one saw us and we didn't wreck her car! We valet'd once we got there, then I had to come up with some convincing story. The door guy asked for the invitation, and I told him something along the line of "I misplaced it, I was told it wouldn't be a problem, I know so and so...” and voila, he let us in. We were both so giddy, that we failed to notice Gene Simmons standing next to us at the bar. After the shock wore off, we managed to relax a little and mingle. We met KISS, RATT, and a few others. But the topper was having our caricature done with Weird Al Yankovic. He is so tall and such a sweetheart! Lynn and I thought that life couldn't get any better than this.
As the party winded down, around 11:30 pm, everyone headed outside. Everybody was srtill hob-nobbing, so once outside, a radio executive handed me his business card and told me that everyone was going to the Crescent Court Hotel bar for a drink. So, of course we went and we were the first ones there. My friend was out of cash, and I only had seven bucks left. She ordere
116. Jenerator - July 12, 1999 - 2:08 PM PT
PARTY NIGHT from my heathen days pt. 2
and I only had seven bucks left. She ordered a Crown and Coke, and I ordered a Tom Collins (Our tab was $25 for that round alone!). Both of us were a little scared when after half an hour no one showed up. While pondering how I was going to get us out of there, in walks at least ten security guards with ear pieces, walky talkies, and suits. After the scanned the place, one lipped "Okay" to the guard at the door. In walks some young Arab looking guy modestly dressed. A couple minutes later, three women walk in. After that, an older gentleman walks in. Both of the guys sit down at the bar on the side diagonal from us. Smiling, the older man said "Hello, I am the General." The other one said "I am Aziz Abdullah" or something along those lines.
We were both freaking out "Real Arab royals!! Too cool!" Since, our radio execs never showed up, we chatted with the two Arab guys. They both were in love with Lynn (she's 100% Greek with jet black hair). They picked up our tab and bought us two bottles of Cristall. We all closed the place down. At approx. 2:30 am, the "General" asked for Lynn's number. He was admittedly unattractive, but he was royalty, right? He promised to pick her up in his Rolls Royce limo, take her to Korshak's, buy her anything she wanted, and then take her to dinner. So, she gave him her number.
The next day she vacillated between wanting to go out with the general because how many times does one have an opportunity like that, vs. not wanting to be on a "date" with someone she truly wasn't interested in. So, when he called, she didn't answer. He left a message "Hello Lynn, this is the King." Then he called one more time and didn't leave a message.
117. Jenerator - July 12, 1999 - 2:09 PM PT
pt. 3
Our adventure was over.
Two months later, one of the security guards called Lynn and said that he was glad she never went out with him. When asked why, the guard said "He thinks that any single women at bars are prostitutes, and he would have made you part of his harem!"
I have no idea who they were. What a crazy night!
118. joezan - July 12, 1999 - 7:21 PM PT
Jen:
Great story!
...and don't tell your friend, but I heard Gene Simmons' gardeners were Arabs, and he let them use his Rolls all the time.
119. Jenerator - July 13, 1999 - 7:12 AM PT
Joe,
I guess it pays to be a rock-n-roll gardner!;-) You should have seen the wad of 100's both men had!
120. joezan - July 13, 1999 - 7:32 PM PT
Jen:
Shoot...in Gene Simmons' car, they probably found those bills in the seats!
121. joezan - July 13, 1999 - 9:02 PM PT
...and all this talk of Gene Simmons reminds me of...
THE DAY I WAS SCARED BY ROCK-N-ROLL:
It was December 31, 1975 - the eve of The Bicentennial - and the Nassau Coliseum, in Uniondale, Long Island was hosting its BIGGEST CONCERT EVER: Mountain (billed only as Leslie West, for some reason), Blue Oyster Cult and KISS.
Now, KISS were monsters at this time - the biggest thing since The Beatles. But my friends and I had resisted their lure - partly because of their ridiculous get-ups, partly because they were such obvious poseurs, and partly because we were all over 15 - but mostly because their music sucked so badly. We all liked BOC and Mountain, but I think we kind of used that for an excuse to see just what all the fuss was about - we'd heard the stories about the riots at their concerts, and I guess we were curious.
Anyway, we got there 3 hours early, and there were already 10,000 kids there, all drunk and/or stoned (as were we), and took our place in the line which snaked around the building and through the parking lot.
While we waited, we passed the time by getting even more wasted and making fun of all the people who had gone to all extremes in order to look like their KISS heroes.
(cont'd...)
122. joezan - July 13, 1999 - 9:03 PM PT
(...cont'd)
Then, an hour before the concert was scheduled to start, they opened ONE GATE - and the riot started. All the people who had waited at the front of the lines at the other gates started pushing on the glass doors, until they managed to just push them in - frames and all, and people flooded in.
The police moved in quickly, clubbing people back and blocking the entrances with their cars.
No problem. Everyone just climbed on top of the cruisers on their way in. By the time my friends and I reached an entrance, the car blocking it was flattened as if it had gone through a car crusher - you barely had to step up to get over it.
As we got through into the building, I was literally picked up off my feet by the horde - I had no control over where I was going, and the breath was being crushed out of me. I clawed my way up higher, so that I was actually riding on top of the crowd, and this was much better.
As if this was not enough to warn me that I was headed for something bad, while I was up there on top of the crowd I saw someone kick over a wheelchair, which was occupied by a guy who appeared to have polio. People just stepped on this poor guy on their way in.
(cont'd...)
123. joezan - July 13, 1999 - 9:06 PM PT
(cont'd...)
I finally got into the arena, and realized I was separated from my friends. I found a seat, and sat through a relatively uneventful Mountain set, followed by an hour of BOC, during which time I was reunited with 3 or 4 of my friends.
Then KISS came on, and all hell broke loose. First, people started chucking M80's and full packs of firecrackers into the crowd. There was also a gang of 5 or 6 kids running around dressed like the kids from the movie A Clockwork Orange - cod pieces, breast plates and all - beating the crap out of people with canes and clubs. I was never so scared in my life, and I was sure that at any minute, the show would be stopped.
It wasn't. This insanity continued throughout the remainder of the show. And it actually seemed to me that the band egged this idiocy on - they had to be aware of it, but they never asked the houligans to stop, and implored the crowd repeatedly to "go wild".
After that, I could not go to a concert for a couple of years, and have never gone to an indoor concert since. Just a couple of years ago I took my daughter to a circus at an indoor arena, and had to leave early when i started having a panic attack.
Man, do I HATE Kiss!
124. Jenerator - July 14, 1999 - 10:58 AM PT
Joe,
Wow! What a scary concert! I had no idea that my mention of KISS would bring back such terrible memories. Sorry about that.
Probably the most dangerous concert I went to was back in '93 when I saw "I hate God" (opening) and "White Zombie." Imagine yourself in a small concert building (max. about 3,000 people)with nothing but drug addicts, satanists, and punkers. Once again, I was with my friend Lynn, and she was a big White Zombie fan. She has mentioned going to the show, but I told her it was a bad idea for a single female to go. She told me (rather bluntly, too) "You can come with me, or you can stay home. I'm going, period!" So, I went with her. 30 seconds after arrival, I had a total burnout with an upside cross and a pentagram come up to me and tell me that he wanted to taste my blood and that he had some "killer weed in his car". His friend, the guy with two teeth, asked Lynn if he could buy her a tequila body shot. All of this was an omen.
"I Hate God" played for about 30 minutes and did they suck. They were the typical pimple faced speed metal wanna be's who were absolutely terrible! Finally, White Zombie came on and the crowd went wild. Like a fool, I was really close to the stage. When the guys in the crowd realized that the bass player was a girl, the riot began, and I found myself in an extremely violent mosh-pit. Trying to avoid the punching maniac with a mohawke, I jumped behind a big guy. He smiled and then proceeded to physically lift me in the air. So, there I was crowd-surfing, getting symbolically molested by metal heads. I was finally let down to the ground, and I crawled to an open spot. I spotted Lynn who was laughing hysterically, when she mouthed "Aren't they awesome!?"
It was a dark crowd.
125. JJBiener - July 14, 1999 - 11:52 AM PT
Jen - It sounds like you were quite the wild woman in your younger days.
126. Jenerator - July 14, 1999 - 12:09 PM PT
JJ,
I've only been a Christian for approx. 3 1/2 years. Btw, I tried to e-mail you (Mystery Thread) and the address didn't work. Will you post it again?
127. stamper - July 14, 1999 - 5:37 PM PT
jenerator
i read all the stories above and there are really some good ones but i thought your one about your grandparents was one of the best. my story is about when i was young but it is not a happy story like yours. i wrote it out first on word so that the spelling and all should be better than i usually do.
Well, lucky for Beverly Jean, she got my mom's looks and then some. That had its down side, because at a very young age she filled right out and the boys were after her like you could not believe. And she loved it. There never was a bigger flirt in the world than Beverly Jean and it drove my old man crazy. He did every thing he could to keep the boys away from her and her away from the boys. She got into the habit of using me to get her way. She would do such things as say, I'm going to take stamper to the movies tonight. Is that o.k. Yeah, she took me to the movies all right, but that was the last I saw of her until that movie was over. Then she would make me tell her all about it. When we got home she would carry on about what a fine movie it was and how much she liked it, ain't that right stamper, ‘till I was about to puke. I didn't like lying then, still don't now, but what was I to do. Beverly Jean would rather tell a lie than the truth when there was no need at all. How she ever kept things straight in her head was a mystery to me. If I did lie, which I did a few times, my mom could spot it in a second. I never lied to my old man ‘cause it didn't make any difference. He wasn't interested in the answer, just in the beating he was going to give me. Looking back I conclude he was a frustrated drummer and he mistook me for the drum.
Well, one night Beverly Jean just went too far. She stayed out with this boy ‘til way past midnight. Her time for coming home had been ten. Normally I would be asleep by then, but I could hear the old man muttering in the kitchen and I knew if she weren't home soon, she was
128. stamper - July 14, 1999 - 5:46 PM PT
She stayed out with this boy ‘til way past midnight. Her time for coming home had been ten. Normally I would be asleep by then, but I could hear the old man muttering in the kitchen and I knew if she weren't home soon, she was in a peck of trouble. The hours passed and he just grew more and more frantic. Mom kept trying to calm him down, but it did little good. Now pa used to beat on me, but I never saw him hit Beverly Jean or Rose of Sharon. He could dress them down pretty good, though. So while I was interested in how it would all play out, I was in no way prepared for what happened.
Around about 1 AM we could all here a car pull up in the front yard. I expected Beverly Jean to come right in, but she did not. It was a full 20 minutes and pa could stand it no longer. He marched out to that car, opened the right hand door, and from the way he tells it, found Beverly Jean is a bit of disarray. He let out a holler that neighbors all around must have heard, and the nearest was over half a mile away. I could see from my window Beverly Jean jumped from the car and whoever was driving took out like a ruptured duck that right hand door just a swinging in the breeze.
Now Beverly Jean was almost 17 when this event took place, so I guess she figured she could do as she pleased and started laying that line on the old man. That was not smart. All the screaming soon stopped ‘cause right about then the old man lost it and gave her a sock in the mouth you could here right through the walls of that old farm house. Beverly Jean went down like a felled ox.
The old man just went almost running around the yard with his hands on his face just a crying like a baby. Now I never saw my dad cry, not once in my life and I didn't know what to make of it. Beverly Jean was just groveling around on the ground like she was looking for something. Turned out she was. She was looking for the front tooth my old man had just knocked out
129. stamper - July 14, 1999 - 5:49 PM PT
(conclusion)
He tried to make it right with Beverly Jean, but it was no use. Two days later she was gone. Packed up her few belongings and went.
It nearly broke my mom's heart, and truth be told, the old man's too. For a little while, we all thought she would be back. You know, home is home and it ain't an easy place to leave, no matter how bad you might think it to be. There's worse places to be, by god, and there's worse people to deal with than your own family, no matter what you think you are enduring. Beverly Jean never did come back and we have not seen her since.
Now if you happen to see a beautiful lady missing one front tooth, please give her a hug for me, and tell her we miss her a whole bunch. You see, it wasn't just two children mom and pop lost, and none
130. conniemack - July 14, 1999 - 8:21 PM PT
"You see, it wasn't just two children mom and pop lost, and none...."
Stamp, finish the story.
131. stamper - July 14, 1999 - 9:41 PM PT
conniemack
well, really the story was finished 'cause all i had to say was none of the children mom and pop lost was more dear to them than Beverly Jean, but that don't add much to the story, i guess.
132. cmboyce - July 14, 1999 - 10:14 PM PT
"It wasn't just two children..." I presume that's you and your sister, both driven away by your father. Who were the others? And how lost?
133. Jenerator - July 15, 1999 - 9:42 AM PT
stamper,
Thank you for the compliment.;-)
I read your story above and it made me quite sad. Physical abuse causes so much damage, and tears apart families. I am so sorry that happened to you. I hope you find your sister, and I hope that wherever she is, she is having a good life. All to often, the cycle of abuse repeats itself. For you and your family, I hope it stopped with your dad.
134. marjoribanks - July 15, 1999 - 12:01 PM PT
I was the ideal child, a blessed super-cute infant until the age of five. My parents were beautiful and young, and the only couple with a child in their circle, the circle of young intellectuals and budding tycoons that came of age in the sixties and early seventies in India. I was cuddled, smothered, blanketed with affection and appreciation. I was even photographed and displayed on biscuit packets all over the country. That's how good life was and how adorable I was.
But then my brother was born, and my life in the limelight ended. And I didn't take to this loss kindly. From the time he was big enough to sit up and look at me in horror, I pounded him, pinched him and kicked him in order to make him cry. I think his first steps were compelled by a desire to get away from me. And that kid learned to run pretty damn fast, let me tell you.
The reign of torture had its own downward spiral. Sick with loss and anger I'd hurt the little boy, and then my parents would punish or hurt me and give him even more of the attention and affection that was rightfully mine. So, the next day, wounds deepened, I'd hurt him more. Kick him in the balls, twist his ear, vow to the servants that I'd kill him eventually.
But in 1977 we were asked to participate in a little magazine interview for a kids publication in Bombay. And we were both asked who our heroes were. Mine was predictable, it was Sunil Gavaskar the great opening batsman who every other Bombay kid idolized. But when asked, my brother simply said "Bhaiyya" (the honorific for older brother.) I'll never forget the feeling that came over me when I heard that, a flushed terror, a horror, as close as you can come to anguish at the age of 9.
We bruised each other later as teens and young adults, and reduced each other to tears on occasion. But I never ever, ever, hit the little fellow again.
135. ScottLoar - July 15, 1999 - 12:13 PM PT
And so did you come of age.
136. marjoribanks - July 15, 1999 - 12:26 PM PT
Loar,
Yes. And I learned all about unqualified love and forgiveness. Though we're both married now, and part of a much larger context of friends and family than when we were growing up, in some fundamental way my brother and I are alone together in the world. And I'm deeply grateful for him.
137. marjoribanks - July 15, 1999 - 12:28 PM PT
Of course, if my brother ever saw this weepy prose he'd make fun of me mercilessly for the rest of my life. The unsentimental asshole.
138. cmboyce - July 15, 1999 - 12:36 PM PT
Marjoribanks, I'm glad that you, one of the Fray's best writers, has found this thread.
How, pray, did you end up on a biscuit box? Is it still in circulation? Might there be a link to it?
139. hashke - July 15, 1999 - 12:41 PM PT
marj:
That's a marvelous, touching story, well told!
Your pre-brother silver spoon existence calls to mind a few idioms equivalent to 'born with a silver spoon in one's mouth'. A Spanish saying is 'nacer de pie' -- 'to be born standing up, on foot'...in Basque it is 'hortzekin jaio' -- 'born with teeth'...in Russian 'roditsya v rubashkye' -- 'born in a shirt'...and in Navajo 't'óó biyaa n'dilniihgo bi'dizhchí' -- 'born with a hand moving about beneath him/her', signifying pampering and coddling.
How about in Hindi, or in your other languages?
140. marjoribanks - July 15, 1999 - 12:43 PM PT
Why thanks for the compliment, Boyce.
As I mentioned, my parents were the only one in their circle with a child when I was really small. So I was much photographed and cooed over. One of the photographers happened to be a nascent advertising moghul and he used one of his shots on a biscuit wrapper. That is all. Later on, when I was about 4, he actually sold shots of me to a UK agency and I was displayed as the Sudafed kid in several urban markets in that country too. What can I say, before my brother arrived I was considered cute by all and sundry. After, well, it's been a long and precipitous decline.
141. marjoribanks - July 15, 1999 - 12:47 PM PT
Hashke!
I cannot for the life of me think of an equivalent in Hindi or Konkani. They must exist, I'm quite ashamed at my inadequacy in this area. Sorry.
142. hashke - July 15, 1999 - 12:48 PM PT
cmboyce:
"How, pray, did you end up on a biscuit box".
He was a very cute little wafer.
143. theDiva - July 15, 1999 - 12:52 PM PT
Major
Very touching story, indeed. Thanks for posting it.
144. JJBiener - July 15, 1999 - 1:01 PM PT
Marj - My older brother was a lot like you were. He was very good at tormenting me. I would get even by destroying his toys, booby-trapping his bed, getting him in trouble. The typical little brother stuff. This continued until I was 14. Then I was big enough and stong enough to beat the crap out of him. He never bothered me again.
145. theDiva - July 15, 1999 - 1:07 PM PT
My two full-blood brothers are about five years apart. There's a picture of them that perfectly captures the essence of their relationship as children.
Vincent, in a Radio Flyer, is leaning back, ankles crossed, hands behind his head, enjoying the ride. Marc has the handle in both hands and is facing Vincent, dragging this heavy load up a steep and rocky hill....his cheeks are bright red and he has a huge grin on his face.
I love it.
146. msgreer - July 15, 1999 - 1:33 PM PT
Diva...
excuse me..
check your email.
147. joezan - July 15, 1999 - 3:49 PM PT
marj:
Great story.
The relationship between my younger brother and I was quite similar to that you described...
...except, my "coming of age" came when I was 16, he 13 and 4 inches taller (he still is) and, following one of my whuppin's, he charged me, shoulder-to-gut, and put me through two walls - from his bedroom into our sisters' bedroom.
I never touched him again.
148. cmboyce - July 15, 1999 - 4:11 PM PT
Message #145
Diva, which brother is the elder?
Are we talking exploitation or noblesse oblige? (g)
149. stamper - July 16, 1999 - 9:12 PM PT
Have you ever had an experience in your life so upsetting that you just bury it deep inside you and do your best to never think about it? Something you wish you could tell to someone so maybe it would go away? I got one. What I'm going to tell you happened when I was just a boy, living up in Escalon on our little chicken ranch about 10 miles east of town. I couldn't have been much more than 12, maybe on the old side of 12. I am pretty sure of that because I know I had my Iver Johson 12 gauge shot gun which I got for my 11th birthday. I remember clearly that I had hunted two seasons with that gun and so I must have been just a few months short of thirteen.
To tell you the truth I would like to stop telling this story right here and now, and I know I would if I had to face you while I'm telling it. I've keep this story buried deep inside me now for some thirty-three years. I never told by best buddy Bill, or Dolly, who I have shared every other thing that ever happened to me, or Jimbo, who is more like a brother to me than my own brother, Bruce, who we lost in the Vietnam War. Since I was only thirteen when he was killed I only had him for a short time, and now I've had Jimbo for all these years.
150. stamper - July 16, 1999 - 9:15 PM PT
(cont.)
Jimbo was my brothers best friend and eight years my senior. It was Jimbo who come over to the baseball field where we had a game going to tell me my brother would not be coming home, least ways, not alive. Now as awful as that all was, I would far rather talk about that than what I got to talk about. What happened happened in the month of August 1966. I say I got to tell this story because, well, let me put it this way. Have you ever eaten something that did not agree with you and later on you got this nauseous feeling, kind of cool and sweaty, and you knew you was going to lose it and you really wanted to, but still you fight it with everything you got hoping the feeling will go away? When it finally happens you feel a little weak, but after a bit the cold sweats stop and you start to feel better. Well, I'm hoping that when I finish this tale, my cold sweats will go away, and while I'm not apt to forget what happened, it will somehow now eat at me so bad.
151. stamper - July 16, 1999 - 9:20 PM PT
(cont.)
It was a hot August that summer and keeping cool was a hard thing to do. Now even though our neighbors were not right next door like in a city, we had plenty of them and it was common for a bunch of us guys to get together when our folks weren't working us too hard and find some activity or another. Mostly it was a pickup baseball game, but this August day was so hot we didn't have the spirit for it. The gang of us were together, me, Pete, Andy, Pet's older brother, my best buddy Bill, little Ritchie, the other Bill, Billy beans Lyman. We called him that ‘cause he could fart on command, which we all got a big kick out of. And George Costa was along, which was a little unusual ‘cause he was almost two years older, but he had been held back a year and was in Andy's class, so he hung with us some. There may have been one or two smaller kids, but I can't quite remember.
I think it was George who suggested we all hike over to Miller's Pond for a swim so we could cool off from the heat which was well over 100. Miller's Pond was just more than a mile off, but that was no big deal for us, we were used to long hikes. Hell, if it had been September and we were hunting doves, we would have hiked ten or more miles before we got our limit of ten doves. Well, we had a good time skinny dipping and spent most of the afternoon there, in fact probably a little too long ‘cause it must have been around six when we decided to leave to get home for supper.
We decided to take a short cut through old man Bonzii‘s ranch ‘cause that cut off about ½ a mile and we were in a hurry. God almighty, how I wish we had just taken the road home ‘cause then none of this would have happened. Going through Bonzi's ranch took through this little gully where a creek sometimes runs in the spring if it is a real rainy one. We were half way through that gully when all of a sudden a gun goes off and damned if dust doesn 't fly up
152. stamper - July 16, 1999 - 9:41 PM PT
(cont.)
up a few feet in front of George who was in the lead. That scared us half to death ‘cause hunting season wasn't on and that gunshot was no shotgun but a rifle and no sane person used a rifle unless he was after some big game like a deer and there were no deer within fifty miles of Escalon.
All us kids kind of bunched up trying to figure where that shooter was and why he came so close to shooting us. Peter spied him first. He was over under a willow tree sitting on the ground leaving against the trunk. We could see him plain as day, but he was not someone we knew, not an owner of any of the ranches around nor a worker on any ranch we knew and we thought we knew them all. He stood up and pointed the rifle at us and hollered for us to come over. Had we known what was going to happen we might have made a run for it and maybe he would not have shot us
153. stamper - July 16, 1999 - 9:46 PM PT
(conclusion)
All us kids kind of bunched up trying to figure where that shooter was and why he came so close to shooting us. Peter spied him first. He was over under a willow tree sitting on the ground leaving against the trunk. We could see him plain as day, but he was not someone we knew, not an owner of any of the ranches around nor a worker on any ranch we knew and we thought we knew them all. He stood up and pointed the rifle at us and hollered for us to come over. Had we known what was going to happen we might have made a run for it and maybe he would not have shot us, but we were young boys and just did what he said.
When we got up close we noticed the most terrible thing, and if I could, I would stop this story right now but it has got to come out, all the ugly nastiness just like when you got to heave. That dumb son-of –a-bitch had his pants unzipped and he had his pecker out. He made each one of us come close and he started feeling our ass. Then he told all of us except Andy to walk a little ways away and mind our on business. He made Andy drop his pants.
There is no point in going on with this story ‘cause you know with out being told what happened. When he had done his dirty work, he told us to light out, which we did as fast as we could. There was not one word spoken on the way home and from that day forward we never mentioned that event, not to our parents and not even to each other even though the bunch of us went all through school together.
I will just tell you one thing. Up until that time, Andy had been a real easy going guy and I never knew him to have one fight, not even with his younger brother Peter. After that, Andy got the reputation of being a real hard ass, who would and could kick the shit out of anyone who gave him a bad look. He quit school before his last year and joined the Marines. I always kind of thought that all the guys Andy beat up was that nasty ass hole in that gully.
154. FreeToChoose - July 17, 1999 - 10:29 AM PT
AzureNW
"It's strange that many of the best memories I have
involve extreme physical hardships, exhausting hikes
and ski treks, nearly drowning in a freezing river…"
You brought back memories. Although in the cold, dispassionate light of retrospection, I was probably never close to drowning in a freezing river, I thought so at the time. Can you share your experience?
155. incognito - July 20, 1999 - 10:49 AM PT
hey jenerator just wondering about your recounting past "fun" stories from your "heathen" days. Do you recount them here because you still find such things fun and amusing? Do you regret going out to sleazy places, getting stoned and hit on, or do you tell us these things because you just want to appear "cool and trendy?" Just curious.
I guess what I am wondering is, would you do those things again today if given the chance? Or do you NOW find them wrong to do?
156. incognito - July 20, 1999 - 10:49 AM PT
hey jenerator just wondering about your recounting past "fun" stories from your "heathen" days. Do you recount them here because you still find such things fun and amusing? Do you regret going out to sleazy places, getting stoned and hit on, or do you tell us these things because you just want to appear "cool and trendy?" Just curious.
I guess what I am wondering is, would you do those things again today if given the chance? Or do you NOW find them wrong to do?
157. judithathome - July 20, 1999 - 11:04 AM PT
incognito:
Why not write a nice little post about some of your childhood experiences or your youthful exploits? This isn't the thread for attacking Jenerator. It's for sharing things that have happened to us in the past.
Lots of us have done things in the past that we'd probably think twice before doing now; it's called growth. It's something that happens to everyone....or at least, it should.
158. Mazaska - July 20, 1999 - 11:18 AM PT
incognito -
Judge Not ...
159. cmboyce - July 20, 1999 - 12:38 PM PT
Lord, Stamper, I hardly know what to say after that tale. Neither does anyone else it seems.
Surely you're right about Andy's transformation. Do you know how he did in the Marines and after?
I certainly hope that part of your bad feeling about this thing isn't guilt, either that you didn't report it at the time or that you should have at least talked it out with the others or something. Because it shouldn't. You did the only thing really available in your circumstances and that your world offered no better wasn't your doing.
I hope that the last few days have brought a clearing of that dreadful cold-sweat nausea feeling (excellently described, btw).
160. hashke - July 21, 1999 - 4:26 PM PT
When I came home from Parris Island on my first furlough I was a Marine in very good shape at six feet four inches tall and over two hundred pounds. I had turned eighteen during the training ordeal at boot camp.
The first night of my arrival at the homestead I was worn out by the several days and nights of train and bus rides from South Carolina to my home in New Mexico, so I went to bed early, around ten o'clock. Shortly after I got to sleep there came a scratching on the window screen. It was my high school football and basketball pal, Joe Carmaggi, home on leave from the Navy. He was close to me in size and heft.
'Hey, Moose!' he said. 'We got a fight goin' downtown with a bunch of pachucos! We need your help!' There was always such a scrap going on nights downtown. 'Slats and Ole are waiting for us,' said Joe.
I went to the door and let Joe in. Then I quickly dressed and grabbed the only weapon I had, my wide Marine Corps belt with its heavy brass buckle. It was a formidable mace to swing at the enemy.
(continued)
161. hashke - July 21, 1999 - 4:37 PM PT
Joe and I started for the door, but my mother, who had heard the noise, intercepted us. My dad was out of town at the time. My mother stood only about five feet five in her bare feet and nightgown, but she faced us down with a gibraltic presence and force. I had come home bedraggled from other such spats when I was in school, so she knew what was up.
'What are you doing, Sonny? Where are you going at this time of night?' Dammit to hell, would she ever quit calling me 'Sonny'? And what did she mean by 'this time of night'? I was now a Marine, dammit!
'Well, Ma, there is a little squabble with some guys and Joe needs my help, so I'm gonna go along to help him talk to these guys.' My dad and mom had always taught my brothers and me never to tell a fib.
'Now, Sonny, you are not going anywhere to get in a fight,' said my mom.
'Aw, we're just gonna talk to these guys, Ma,' I replied.
Joe looked very sheepish as he backed away to the doorway.
(continued)
162. hashke - July 21, 1999 - 4:52 PM PT
'I know what you have in mind and you're not going anywhere tonight, Sonny.'
'Aw, c'mon Ma. I'm in the Marines now and this is sort of advanced training,' I said.
'No, Sonny, put that belt away and go back to bed!'
'Aw, c'mon Ma!'
'And Joe, you hightail it out of here and go home and get to bed, too! What would your mother think if she knew you were going to a gang fight? Shame on you, Joe!' My mother gave Joe a little shove. I was livid.
'AW, C'MON MA!!! C'MON MA!!!
Joe told me in later years, relating the events of that night, that such was the intensity of my entreaty to my mother that her hair blew back as if she were standing in a strong wind.
Joe disappeared in a wink and I retreated to my bedroom, pissing and moaning and aw c'mon ma-ing. This was terribly humiliating. Carmaggi would tell our buddies and how could I ever face them? What if the Corps ever somehow got wind of this countermarch? This shamefaced, hangdog, chapfallen back-pedaling in front of a little woman, my mother? And the Marines were fighting a war in the Pacific. And we were going to be shipped out there to do battle...
(continued)
163. hashke - July 21, 1999 - 5:00 PM PT
I saw Carmaggi downtown a few days later. He and his pals had gone into the fray in front of automobile headlights down by the train station. He had been stabbed with a screwdriver in the neck, a thick, nearly impregnable column of oaklike muscle, and Slats had had a couple of teeth knocked out. They were heavily outnumbered and had had to beat a disorganized retreat. It was a stampede. Ole, unscathed, was the sprinter in the group. Joe complained that my involvement might have made all the difference, but I reminded him that I had been taught to 'always honor thy father and thy mother'.
(Finis)
164. joezan - July 21, 1999 - 7:35 PM PT
hashke:
Another good one.
...you were a brawler???!!!
165. AzureNW - July 21, 1999 - 8:34 PM PT
FreeToChoose, I'm so sorry I overlooked your post on 7/17. I've become so accustomed to my role as an outlaw in this forum that I never expect anyone to address me directly any more. This post is the first one you have addressed me directly, isn't it?
The time I got in over my head in a freezing river was another case of my following a man over the edge. Several times, male companions surprised by my physical strength have lead me to overestimate my own physical limits that way, encouraging me to follow like a buddy. In this case, I jumped from a sandstone cliff into a raging river.
I'm not much of a story teller, though. My language skills aren't very strong at all.
hhmmmm.... let me think about what I experienced that time. If I can find a way to describe it, I'll tell you.
166. stamper - July 21, 1999 - 8:55 PM PT
cmboyce
i sure am sorry if folks got upset with that story, but every word of it is true and it is easy to bury things like that, but that is not the best way to handle things, is it. there is more to the story and i wrote it out on word so the grammar and spelling would be good.
i enjoyed reading haske's story too. i never was in the service 'cause my brother was killed in Vietnam and i was the only son,
After Andy quit school and joined the Marines and I quit school a year later, I forgot all about him. As you can see, I did not forget that horrible incident. But five or six years later I ran into Andy, where I certainly did not expect to. I was down in Daly City, which is almost like a part of Frisco and if you didn't know better, you wouldn't know the difference. Most people have heard of the Cow Palace and if I am not mistaken, it is in Daly City, but it is seldom mentioned when a sport event is taking place there.
My good buddy jimbo and I were down there helping this school teacher remodel an old house he had picked up real cheap. He got it cheep, but if you would have seen the place you would have said he almost got what he paid for it. It was a mess
167. stamper - July 21, 1999 - 9:18 PM PT
One of the things jimbo and I liked to do after work was to go down to the bar on Mission St. called The Dew Drop Inn and relax and play a little pool. When we walked in I noticed this bearded guy at the end of the bar kind of give us a look. I didn't pay him much mind but I noticed he gave us the once over but a guy will do that when someone new walks in to a bar. But as we sat there a while i noticed that guy couldn't quit looking at us. All of a sudden he gets up and heads towards us. I wasn't sure what to expect but when he gets a little ways away he says. "Aren't you from Escalon?" Then I knew who it was. It was Andy. Him and me went over and sat in a booth and started talking old times, except neither one of us were every going to bring up that incident, that's for sure. I was full of questions about the war but mostly Andy just smiled. It seemed the war had somehow changed Andy back to the easy going kid I knew before the incident. Now wouldn't you think it would have the opposite effect? Andy was going to school over at San Francisco State. He liked it there ‘cause there were plenty of older guys and girls going there. I guess there were a lot of young kids going there too. Andy told me when he finished school he either wanted to go to law school or become a teacher. He seemed to think he would be very good with kids, and I got that feeling too. It seemed he knew something the rest of us didn't. If it were so, though, you couldn't get it out of him.
168. stamper - July 21, 1999 - 9:19 PM PT
Pretty soon Jimbo got a little lonely, I imaginge, for he came over to the booth to join us. He and Andy became friendly right away. Jimbo's way of looking at life is be open to everybody, unless they give you reason not to be. Maybe I'll get a chance to tell you more about Jimbo some time, but I wanted to tell you about this meeting with Andy in the hopes that if you got a sick feeling in the gut from what happened way back then you could just let it go and know full well Andy survived the war and everything else, too. Some how I wish I took get the whole incident out of my mind, but you have to live with what life gives you; the good, the bad and the ugly. That's just one of the mysteries of life that we have to live with.
169. hashke - July 21, 1999 - 9:39 PM PT
Thanks for the compliments, joezan and stamper. Was I a brawler? Not really. Good in a scrap, but better at play.
170. ethiopianeunuch - July 21, 1999 - 11:30 PM PT
Azure
You reminded me of a time that I went fishing with a friend in the Carquinez Strait. Its a large body of water that eventually becomes SF bay. The current are swift and the water gets rough when the wind blows. We went out on a warm windy summer evening in a 12 foot fiberglass cartop skiff. We had been out in this boat a week earlier on a calm night and it was no problem.
This evening was a little differant. The wind was howling and the marina was desserted except for one guy who came over and said "you're not going out in that are you?". We were young and cocky and blew this fool off with a wisecrack about how he could come save us if we got into trouble.
The minute we got outside the breakwater I knew we were in trouble. I yelled to Craig that I think we better go back but Craig is a fearless optomist who was convinced that we only had to go a little further and every thing would calm down and be fine. We got up near the Benica Martinez bridge and he cut the engine. We took a nice swell over the bow. I freaked and jumped out of the boat, life jacket in one hand ,convinced I could swim to the bridge abbutment.
I can remember the look of absolute disbelief on Craigs face as he sat in that swamped little boat and watched me (a very poor swimmer)
float upstream past the bridge. My jacket was getting real heavy with water, I couldn't get the life jacket on, my boots were weighting me down. I was preparing to drown.
Craig was trying to start the engine and his drift was a little faster than mine. As the distance between us started to grow I called to Craig "don't leave me". He jumped in as well.
Craig is a good swimmer who always puts his lifejacket on BEFORE he jumps into frigid current ripped choppy water as the sun goes down. He was able to get my coat off, life jacket on and I kicked my boots off myself. So there we were, two lifelong buddies floating upstream with the tide in some fairly c
171. ethiopianeunuch - July 21, 1999 - 11:40 PM PT
cold water. We drifted under the railraod bridge and I got the idea that someone had to be in the drawbridge room. I started screaming my head off for help hoping they would here us. Craig tried to quiet me down thinking I was still just panicking. We didn't see anyone and it started getting dark as we continued on upriver.
Craig was about 40 pounds lighter than me at the time and it didn't take long for the cold to start to hit him hard. Luckily for us someone had heard us on the railroad bridge and it was not to much longer before the Coast Guard picked us up.
We went back to the marina,refused medical attention and went and got some more beer. The Coast Guard even found the boat and we got some of our stuff back but lost a lot of gear.
172. ScottLoar - July 22, 1999 - 1:15 AM PT
Hashke - missing his big chance in the zoot suit riots.
173. hashke - July 22, 1999 - 7:12 AM PT
Exactly, Scott. Zoot suiters were big then.
My mother laughed about the incident until the day she died -- and Carmaggi still tells the story every time I see him.
Btw, didn't Scott Loar have some youthful travails and/or interesting adventures to relate in this thread? Would love to read 'em!
174. marjoribanks - July 22, 1999 - 7:49 AM PT
I spent six months in Paris while writing my Master's thesis. A family member had a lovely little vacant apartment in the 7th, and I took classes at the Sorbonne while ruminating over indentured labor in Mauritius and the Caribbean.
My classmates were a mixed group, but our teacher was a riot, he'd spend the whole day singing loudly, telling wild stories about his sexual exploits. One day, he invited me to share a sandwich with him in the Jardin du Luxembourg, when we sat down he pulled out an immense spliff and we killed it between us before returning to class. From that point, I pestered him to buy me some grass from his sources, I certainly knew of no "connection" in Paris. When he finally came through with a baggie full of weed, it was a precious commodity, and I took care of it as carefully as I did my passport, perhaps even more carefully.
Anyway, one evening, I went over to a German friend's 'chambre de bonne' near St Germain de Pres. Since it was a beautiful evening, we did what we often did, clambered out his window, along a parapet, up a ladder and on to the flat roof of the next-door building. I took the baggie along and rolled a nice joint which we shared. Sitting back, enjoying the breezes and the stars and the high, life was just about perfect. Then it happened, a sudden gust of wind hit us and my baggie was swept from next to me and plummeted away across the knife-edge of the next-door roof. Disaster. Imagine the distress.
Clambering across, still high, we noted that in fact the baggie was still in sight. And so we sat and plotted. There were two roofs in-between with a gap of five feet. If someone was stupid enough to jump the gap, there was a sheer, sloping climb along to a point where there you could cross over to a place near where you could perhaps reach the weed.
175. marjoribanks - July 22, 1999 - 7:51 AM PT
Before I even had time to think about it, I was in the air over the gap between the buildings and on to the slope. There was a jutting out built-in window about midway and I carefully made my way to it, over it, and crossed over to the next roof. The weed was in my hand in a flash. Victory.
It was then that I realized I now had to climb _down_ a sheer sloping roof for forty feet, manage to stop at the bottom (overlooking a seven story high precipice) and somehow propel myself onto the next roof (which was also sloping though shorter.) My German friend looked at me across the space, I looked at him. He asked me to toss him the baggie, and burst into laughter. I looked at him, quite unamused and suddenly not very stoned any more.
There was only one way to do it, I had to _run_ down this stupid forty-foot slope gathering momentum until I reached the gap and then I had to jump onto the next roof and try to prevent myself from falling by grabbing onto the little jutting-out window (there's a name for this architectural feature which I cant recall.)
So, again, I threw my fate to the wind and sprinted down the roof completely out of control and launched myself onto the slope of the roof in front. And hit straight on face-and stomach first, and scrabbled for a hand-hold or foot-hold, and found none, and now found myself inexorably, slowly, slipping down into the void in between the buildings. Desperately reaching to my left and right I found nothing, then my my right hand found an edge, a gap between two tiles. Still slipping, I could only wedge my last two fingers in the gap, and found a finger-hold, but the edge was sharp, and it cut deeply into the fingers. On my right hand, I've always worn a pinky-ring made of silver, it was this that saved my life, the edge cut all the way to the bone on the fingers, but when it met the ring, I stopped slipping and hung there, feet over the edge, bleeding profusely, until my friend could clamber down and help me
176. ScottLoar - July 22, 1999 - 9:24 AM PT
Anyone who is a parent regardless of age should not read the above post for as parents we conveniently forget our own stupidities.
177. ScottLoar - July 22, 1999 - 9:26 AM PT
Bank's post brings that calculated forgetfulness crashing down around our ears.
178. cmboyce - July 22, 1999 - 9:47 AM PT
Message #176
Whoooo..! Yeah, aint it the truth. I'm awfully glad my daughter is a seemingly sensible, reserved, circumspective child. At least so far (she's 7).
It's a good thing you didn't drop the baggie on the way _back_, Marj! (g)
179. cmboyce - July 22, 1999 - 9:53 AM PT
Moreover, Ethiopianeunuch, your tale is just as chilling (and colder to boot). I know those waters, though only from the shore, and I've watched the tide turn from the bluffs above and marvelled at the confusion and ferocity of the chop.
180. marjoribanks - July 22, 1999 - 10:05 AM PT
Well, gentlemen, I am recounting the story as a father to be. I'll have no problem telling young marjoribanks the awful truth: dad was very very very stupid on that occasion.
On another note, an astrologer told my mother when I was only four or so that my biggest flaw was my foolhardiness, my impetuousness. And so it has remained, I am still embarrasingly imbued with those qualities. I forever resolve to curb them, then get overwhelmed. What is to be done?
181. wabbit - July 22, 1999 - 10:20 AM PT
Banks, are congratulations in order?
182. marjoribanks - July 22, 1999 - 10:24 AM PT
wabbit,
No, congratulations will be in order in approximately seven months.
183. hashke - July 22, 1999 - 10:25 AM PT
marj:
So, in spite of yr character defects you had 'pot' luck on the weed-roof expedition.
184. wabbit - July 22, 1999 - 10:31 AM PT
[has marked her calendar accordingly, but is thinking congrats to you and Mrs. Banks anyway]
185. hashke - July 22, 1999 - 10:31 AM PT
You jumped from roof to reef.
186. Adrianne - July 22, 1999 - 10:35 AM PT
Wabbit
Congrats are due marjoribanks, certainly. His "work" is done.
Poor Ms.Banks, on the other hand, has a long row to hoe.
Congratulations to you mbanks, for a job (presumably) well done!
187. hashke - July 22, 1999 - 10:41 AM PT
marj:
Tell your child-to-be not to try that at home.
188. marjoribanks - July 22, 1999 - 10:43 AM PT
Hashke,
Of course I'll try to keep it a secret. But unfortunately, my German friend and my wife are good pals, and she's heard the story many times. Eventually, it'll get to the kids.
189. cmboyce - July 22, 1999 - 11:03 AM PT
Congratulations, Marj! (You'll just have _more_ congratulations in seven months.)
I know it can't be long before my 7-year-old begins to inquire about recreational drugs, and while I have long ago created a policy for this situation—tell her the truth while leaning perhaps a bit more on the risks and evils than I actually feel, with no actual distortions of my own experience, which was heavy, varyingly delightful and horrific, and for quite some time debilitating—I'm not looking forward to it. I don't altogether repudiate dope (by which I mean marijuana, mostly)—while I dare not own any, I always accept when offered a hit—and I don't want to say I do. But I don't want to make it seem attractive, either.
I guess I'll tell her more or less what I just said. But the older she is when she asks, the happier I'll be. Right now, she's still very impressionable etc. and I don't want her _getting ideas_! ((g); god do I feel old!)
190. ScottLoar - July 22, 1999 - 12:52 PM PT
re Message #180 "What's to be done?" Take your gold or platinum credit card, buy a first-class, one-way ticket to Tokyo where you will stay at the most expensive suite in Shinjuku or Rippongi, eat the most traditional fare lovingly prepared at exorbitant expense, carouse the whole week with high-priced whores dipped in cognacs then commit ritual suicide.
191. PsychProf - July 22, 1999 - 12:57 PM PT
Banks...set up the hoop...best wishes...
192. marjoribanks - July 22, 1999 - 1:07 PM PT
Loar,
Er, I'm not that impetuous.
193. RyckNelson - July 22, 1999 - 8:47 PM PT
Yowza MB. I think of your episode and the Fabuous Fury Freak Brothers popped into mind. Imagine that. Even bodacious foldouts in High Times wont go away.
Congrats with the new life!
194. alistairconnor - July 22, 1999 - 9:23 PM PT
Honestly Marj, my hands were sweating as I laughed while reading that one...
I think having a child will probably improve your live expectancy. It's funny how being a parent makes the most impetuous fool cautious and conservative. Believe me.
I concur with cmboyce's sentiments on recreational drugs. This is in fact made easier for me by the fact that grass is indeed quite hard to come by in France, all one can easily get is that horseshit-like substance that entails either excessive tobacco consumption or conspicuous paraphenalia.
195. AzureNW - July 22, 1999 - 9:46 PM PT
Ha. Visit Vancouver, BC, for a really good time.
196. ethiopianeunuch - July 22, 1999 - 11:35 PM PT
I've got 4 kids 16,12,11 and 8. They have never asked me about my drug history (extensive). They have seen me go through recovery from drinking over the last 4 years and really haven't been all that intersted in details. My experience is that kids are interested in what they are doing and I think that if they are doing drugs will probably figure that parents couldn't possibly have any relevant knowledge. I don't see any reason to put my history in their minds but if I suspect they are using and can use it to advantage I will. So far they look about 10 times staighter than I ever was for which I am very thankfull!
197. joezan - July 24, 1999 - 8:00 AM PT
Funny...you spend your childhood trying to keep your parents from finding out what you're up to. Then, you spend your adulthood trying to "protect" your kids from finding out what you were up to as a child.
...well I do, anyway.
...
Driving to work yesterday, a DJ on the local Christian rock station related that his parents (devout Christians who live about 1000 miles from here, and thus don't see him that often anymore) finally got a computer the day before.
So the guy gives them directions over the phone on how to set up their internet connection, so they can listen to his radio show. About 11:00 that night his mom calls, waking him up. She's terribly upset, because in the links to the various DJs' bios, under "Something most people are surprised to learn about me", his says, "I was a drug addict while in college".
Saying their goodbyes over an hour later, his mom was still in tears.
He had never intended for them to learn about that part of his past.
198. marjoribanks - July 25, 1999 - 6:29 PM PT
I just lost a very long post to this thread, and I'm pissed. What is it with these goddam disappearing posts?
199. alistairconnor - July 25, 1999 - 7:43 PM PT
Marj, if you get the "blank Slate" page (logo only), hit the back button, quick. You may be lucky enough to get the page back with your post still in the box.
Better, before hitting the "post" button, select all the text in the box and go Control-C. This will copy the text to the clipboard, and you can paste it back if it's lost. It soon becomes a reflex.
Ha! I just got the tombstone posting the above, hit the back button, and added this line...
200. IrvingSnodgrass - July 25, 1999 - 8:11 PM PT
Marj, Alistair:
I don't know if it's because I use Netscape or what, but I can always recover a post from the dread Slate blank screen by using the "back" button. But just in case, I always copy longer posts to the clipboard anyway.
And, like Alistair above, I got the "tombstone" (nice coinage, Alistair) when first posting this, but resurrected it (and added this line).