Twenty five years ago, a historic event imprinted itself on all of our memories. Like the day, John F. Kennedy was assassinated or when the planes hit the towers, most people recall the exact time and place they were when they heard of the Space Shuttle Challenger’s tragedy.
It was January 28, 1986. I was in the seventh grade. I was leaving Social Studies and heading to Ms. Fitzsimmons Language Arts class. The bell had rung and I went to my locker to switch out my books. I opened my locker door and this little kid named Jon who’s locker was next to mine walked up. As he opened his locker, he looked to me and exclaimed that the Shuttle just blew up. I thought he was joking. Being a nerd, I knew the Shuttle was launching that morning and I thought Jon was just being an asshole. I told him to suck it and stop dicking around. He swore he was telling the truth. I slammed my locker and said “whatever!”. I walked into my Language Arts class and sat down. Most of the kids were buzzing about something. Ms. Fitzsimmons walked into the room and told everyone that we would be going to the Library to watch the news. As we strolled into the Library in single file, we were instructed to find a seat, there were chairs but most of us sat in the floor. The TV was already on and footage was playing from Cape Canaveral. Before I knew any details, they were replaying the iconic explosion and the two booster rockers zooming off in opposite directions. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. I was literally in shock. How could the fucking shuttle blow up? It was like it was some scene out of some low budget sci-fi flick. I sat in that Library for another 45 minutes in shock. I didn’t admit it back then but tears ran down my cheek.
The Shuttle program was very personal to me at that time. With my Grandmother living in Alamogordo, I had traveled to International Space Hall of Fame. I had the Shuttle toy, both the version on the 747 transport and the wone with External Fuel Tank and Separate Rocket Boosters. I thought it incredibly cool that we could launch this thing into space and it could glide back to Earth and land like a plane.
In March 1982, the Space Shuttle Columbia STS-3 was having trouble landing at its normal landing site at Edwards Air Force Base in California. The shuttle couldn’t remain in space any longer. Edwards was unsuitable due to weather and an alternate site was needed. White Sands Missile Range was found to be an adequate landing site. This was quite exciting. White Sands was only 30 miles from Alamogordo. I was visiting my Grandmother that week. I don’t recall why unless it was Spring Break. I do remember that week that there was many events going on up at the Space Hall. According to the mission leaders, the shuttle was going to enter the landing window some where over New Mexico, glide over Alamogordo and the Space Hall, making a circle and then landing at White Sands. The Space Hall of Fame had many promotions of how they could celebrate this historic event. The was one idea that Shuttle fans would hold tiny little mirrors and reflect a “hello” message to the Shuttle crew. I still have a picture of my Grandmother and I posing with the tiny mirrors up at the Space Hall of Fame. Yet, this little gimmick was nixed because the thought the reflecting light would cause a possible dangerous distraction to the Shuttle pilots.
For the days leading up to the landing at White Sands, my Grandmother clipped newspaper articles and photos from the local newspaper. Before I knew it she had cut dozens out of the paper. We added them to the dozens she had cut from the newspaper over the last couple years. We had so many now that I started a scrap book in an old photo album. I still have that Scrapbook. I cherish it as I remember my Grandmother taking the time to cut the articles and helped me organize them. Even after the Shuttle landed, she continued to cut the articles. The scrapbook grew. We went back to the Space Hall of Fame and bought some cool Shuttle Sticker to decorate the cover.
There was also an art contest. I can’t recall if it was sponsored by the Space Hall or if it was done by the local library or something. But I drew a drawing of the shuttle landing at White Sands. I even included the White Sands dunes and Yucca plants. I didn’t win anything but a “thank you” for participating. And like the scrap book, I kept the drawing. My mother just recently returned it to me with some other art pieces I had done when I was in grade school.
The days leading up to the landing felt like weeks but I know it was only a few days. I remember watching jets fly over my Grandmothers house. I swore I heard the sonic boom of the Shuttle slowing down over Alamogordo. I searched the sky looking for the white glider. I never physically saw it above her house. But I ran inside and watched the landing live on the small TV inside my Grandmother’s apartment. It was so fucking cool that the Space Shuttle was landing in New Mexico. Before I thought nothing important happened in New Mexico but on that day, something did.
Over the next few weeks, we’d tell Shuttle jokes like: “What did the captain say just before the Shuttle exploded? – What’s this little button do!” “What color were the Shuttle Pilot’s eyes? Blue, one Blew that way and one Blew that way.” “How many astronauts can you fit into a car? Two in the front, two in the back and seven in the ash tray.” We thought they were incredibly funny. Now, it just sounds sick and shit. I have grown incredible respect for those brave souls. America wouldn’t lose any astronauts again for another 17 years. Again we’d lose a Shuttle. One we lost on launch. One we lost on its return. It is so ironic it doesn’t feel like it happened by chance. But either way, I felt great sadness on those days. I look to the future of this year as the Shuttle program and last three shuttles fly their final flights and are retired. I pray to God they crew and ships are kept safe.
We will always remember Shuttle Challenger. Jan 28, 1986 – Jan 28, 2011!
Denver Comic Con
Friday, January 28, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Root Beer and Oreos Came Out His Nose!
My earliest memory of Roswell dates back to 1975. It was living in our first apartment at Columbia Manor Apartments. It was a dinky one-bedroom that was directly below the L wing that stood on stilts. Thus, the apartment was always dark as the windows never got sunlight. I just remember the soft tangerine glow of the dining room chandelier light.
Not sure why, but we lived at Columbia Manor three separate times between 1975 and 1983. I think it was close to my mothers work. Or perhaps it was affordable.
Since I was only 3 at the time, the memories are very vague but I do remember that apartment. The next memory is from early 1976 or 1977. I remember my mother leaving me with a baby sitter who lived in a mobile home. It wasn’t one of those shitty single-wides but one of the nice deluxe double-wides and I’m pretty sure the wheels had been removed and it sat on a cinder block foundation as if it was a permanent home. The distinct memory is of myself and the other kids taking a nap on thin mats. I was put right next to a heater vent that I swore had a warm fiery glow at the bottom--as if it shot straight down to a horrid dungeon! I couldn’t sleep thinking some beast with drool dripping from his lips was going to burst through the metal vent any moment and eat me!
Then in 1977, another memory hits. My mother put me in my PJs and popped some Jiffy Pop on the stove and we loaded the car to go to the Drive-In to watch Star Wars! The stormtroopers kicked ass and Darth Vader scared the shit out of me. I wondered how the droids were going to get out of the desert and then a bunch of elves found them. Then, I remember a lot of talking in a cantina and it was lights out. I didn’t see the whole movie until 1978 when I saw it in air-conditioned theater. (That was the cool thing back in the 70s and early 80s, some movies were in the theaters for months, even years!)
Mostly scenes from babysitters permeate my memories during the 1970s. It was very traumatic for me. I felt like it was a new place every other week. Sometime in 1977, I remember sitting on a swing outside of a babysitter’s house crying for hours because my mother left me there early one Saturday morning. This was the same babysitters house where one of her daughters told me the bird bath was filled with chocolate milk. She dared me to drink it. Let’s say it wasn’t no fucking chocolate milk. The shit was muddy water. Now do you see why these events were traumatic for a little five year old.
The babysitter blues would end when my mother finally found the noble Grandma Combs. We called her Grandma although none of the kids she watched were actually related to her. She would be my after school daycare from the late ‘79 until 1982 when she retired and I became a Latch Key Kid. The memories were not traumatic. They were milestone memories. Sitting in her floor, watching the huge built-in TV, watching 5 daring young heroes defend Earth from alien invaders in Battle of the Planets, watching Travis laugh at a joke and seeing Root Beer and Oreos come shooting out his nose and fighting off the other kids so I could watch a shortened version of Star Wars on this little movie viewer I checked out from the Valley View Library.
Not sure why, but we lived at Columbia Manor three separate times between 1975 and 1983. I think it was close to my mothers work. Or perhaps it was affordable.
Since I was only 3 at the time, the memories are very vague but I do remember that apartment. The next memory is from early 1976 or 1977. I remember my mother leaving me with a baby sitter who lived in a mobile home. It wasn’t one of those shitty single-wides but one of the nice deluxe double-wides and I’m pretty sure the wheels had been removed and it sat on a cinder block foundation as if it was a permanent home. The distinct memory is of myself and the other kids taking a nap on thin mats. I was put right next to a heater vent that I swore had a warm fiery glow at the bottom--as if it shot straight down to a horrid dungeon! I couldn’t sleep thinking some beast with drool dripping from his lips was going to burst through the metal vent any moment and eat me!
Then in 1977, another memory hits. My mother put me in my PJs and popped some Jiffy Pop on the stove and we loaded the car to go to the Drive-In to watch Star Wars! The stormtroopers kicked ass and Darth Vader scared the shit out of me. I wondered how the droids were going to get out of the desert and then a bunch of elves found them. Then, I remember a lot of talking in a cantina and it was lights out. I didn’t see the whole movie until 1978 when I saw it in air-conditioned theater. (That was the cool thing back in the 70s and early 80s, some movies were in the theaters for months, even years!)
Mostly scenes from babysitters permeate my memories during the 1970s. It was very traumatic for me. I felt like it was a new place every other week. Sometime in 1977, I remember sitting on a swing outside of a babysitter’s house crying for hours because my mother left me there early one Saturday morning. This was the same babysitters house where one of her daughters told me the bird bath was filled with chocolate milk. She dared me to drink it. Let’s say it wasn’t no fucking chocolate milk. The shit was muddy water. Now do you see why these events were traumatic for a little five year old.
The babysitter blues would end when my mother finally found the noble Grandma Combs. We called her Grandma although none of the kids she watched were actually related to her. She would be my after school daycare from the late ‘79 until 1982 when she retired and I became a Latch Key Kid. The memories were not traumatic. They were milestone memories. Sitting in her floor, watching the huge built-in TV, watching 5 daring young heroes defend Earth from alien invaders in Battle of the Planets, watching Travis laugh at a joke and seeing Root Beer and Oreos come shooting out his nose and fighting off the other kids so I could watch a shortened version of Star Wars on this little movie viewer I checked out from the Valley View Library.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
VCRs and Softy Porn
I recall our first VCR arrived the Christmas of 1985. It wasn’t anything fancy. Heck, it wasn’t even a name brand. It was the Sears brand SR-3000. I didn’t care. The machine held great power. And with great power came great responsibility. It allowed me to record television and replay it back whenever I wanted. I wasn’t a social outcast at school any longer. I could tell my friends that I now had a membership card to the Plains Park Video Store.
The technology wasn’t anything new. I can recall several friends having VCRs dating back to early 1982 or 1983. CB had one. It was a top loader—most likely from Panasonic or RCA. Sony was still pissed that their Betamax didn’t take off. He would record Friday Night Videos from NBC and we’d watch them after school the following week. We wanted our MTV but our little conservative town that MTV was a product of the devil and would rot our souls. Friday Night Videos was the next best thing. Blondie. Cars. Dire Straits. (For the record: Roswell would finally get MTV the summer of 1988.)
The SR-3000 was wickedly cool. It was a side loader thus I could push the tapes in and whoosh they would disappear inside. No need to push down a tape like those old ’82 models. Ours even had Right and Left equalizer lights. It was fucking kewl! And did I break in that membership card at the video store in 1986. Weird Science. My Science Project. Empire Strikes Back for the first time since 1981!
1985 wasn’t the first year I recorded TV. I had been doing it for several years. The problem was: it was on audio tape not video tape. I wanted to remember my favorite shows so much in 1983 and 1984, that I used my little black tape recorder to record shows like G.I. Joe A Real American Hero, Transformers the mini-series, Go-Bots, He-man and Tranzor Z. I would listen to them over and over again. The experience was very much like listening to my old Star Wars Adventure records and radio dramas. It used the most advanced visual technology- that of the imagination! I would beg my mother to take me to Kmart so I could buy more blank Memorex tapes (more like I got the cheap Kmart brand tapes). Before I knew it I had a shoe box full of TV episodes for my listening pleasure. Yet, I quickly traded it all away for the chance to record TV on video tape!
I even remember buying my first licensed video (VHS) tape too. It was G.I. Joe: The Revenge of Cobra mini-series. A video store in Alamogordo sold it to me used for $24 in 1986. My grandmother thought I was being robbed— $24 was outrageous! What was Vi. De. O. Tape? But damn, I could now watch GI Joe when I wanted! A few months later, Pepsi would introduce the mass marketed retail video tape of Top Gun. That was VHS tape number two! I wanted to buy the Star Wars Trilogy but remember it being like hundreds of dollars. In 1989, I think I got them free with a CBS Video club membership. Not sure if I ever finished my obligation to that membership. Dumb bastards should have known I was only 16 and had no job.
Oh, and I also learned my lesson on trying to rent softy porn that year, 1986. If you’re going to do it, make sure you rent it after lunch. Especially if your mother goes to the video store on her lunch hour to rent you Goonies and Real Genius for some afternoon movie watching. See, in small towns, the business owners usually know their customers. They informed my mother that I just left an hour or so earlier with a copy of The Lonely Lady starring Pia Zadora. Now, they didn’t stop me from renting the softy porn but they sure were willing to share that piece of information to my mother. Assholes! I had just got home and was about to pop it into the VCR and watch it when I heard my mothers car pull up. Eject. Back in the case. Under the bed. My mother enters says, “I rented you some movies,” to which I reply with “cool.” She then asked if I wanted to share anything. (Damn mind games!) I said, “no” to which she quickly replied, “I know you rented the movie.” She wanted to know where it was as she was going to take it back to the store before going back to work. I slowly admitted guilt and gave her the tape. I then, had to sit, for twenty minutes, while my mother asked if I rented the movie because I had questions about sex and love. I said no. I wanted to say, CB has HBO. I already know all this stuff. The simple truth was: I just wanted to see titties, mom!
Thus, never did I rent the softy porn again. But it didn’t stop me from recording it when we got free Cinemax for the weekend! (wink wink!) That’s a story for another day….
The technology wasn’t anything new. I can recall several friends having VCRs dating back to early 1982 or 1983. CB had one. It was a top loader—most likely from Panasonic or RCA. Sony was still pissed that their Betamax didn’t take off. He would record Friday Night Videos from NBC and we’d watch them after school the following week. We wanted our MTV but our little conservative town that MTV was a product of the devil and would rot our souls. Friday Night Videos was the next best thing. Blondie. Cars. Dire Straits. (For the record: Roswell would finally get MTV the summer of 1988.)
The SR-3000 was wickedly cool. It was a side loader thus I could push the tapes in and whoosh they would disappear inside. No need to push down a tape like those old ’82 models. Ours even had Right and Left equalizer lights. It was fucking kewl! And did I break in that membership card at the video store in 1986. Weird Science. My Science Project. Empire Strikes Back for the first time since 1981!
1985 wasn’t the first year I recorded TV. I had been doing it for several years. The problem was: it was on audio tape not video tape. I wanted to remember my favorite shows so much in 1983 and 1984, that I used my little black tape recorder to record shows like G.I. Joe A Real American Hero, Transformers the mini-series, Go-Bots, He-man and Tranzor Z. I would listen to them over and over again. The experience was very much like listening to my old Star Wars Adventure records and radio dramas. It used the most advanced visual technology- that of the imagination! I would beg my mother to take me to Kmart so I could buy more blank Memorex tapes (more like I got the cheap Kmart brand tapes). Before I knew it I had a shoe box full of TV episodes for my listening pleasure. Yet, I quickly traded it all away for the chance to record TV on video tape!
I even remember buying my first licensed video (VHS) tape too. It was G.I. Joe: The Revenge of Cobra mini-series. A video store in Alamogordo sold it to me used for $24 in 1986. My grandmother thought I was being robbed— $24 was outrageous! What was Vi. De. O. Tape? But damn, I could now watch GI Joe when I wanted! A few months later, Pepsi would introduce the mass marketed retail video tape of Top Gun. That was VHS tape number two! I wanted to buy the Star Wars Trilogy but remember it being like hundreds of dollars. In 1989, I think I got them free with a CBS Video club membership. Not sure if I ever finished my obligation to that membership. Dumb bastards should have known I was only 16 and had no job.
Oh, and I also learned my lesson on trying to rent softy porn that year, 1986. If you’re going to do it, make sure you rent it after lunch. Especially if your mother goes to the video store on her lunch hour to rent you Goonies and Real Genius for some afternoon movie watching. See, in small towns, the business owners usually know their customers. They informed my mother that I just left an hour or so earlier with a copy of The Lonely Lady starring Pia Zadora. Now, they didn’t stop me from renting the softy porn but they sure were willing to share that piece of information to my mother. Assholes! I had just got home and was about to pop it into the VCR and watch it when I heard my mothers car pull up. Eject. Back in the case. Under the bed. My mother enters says, “I rented you some movies,” to which I reply with “cool.” She then asked if I wanted to share anything. (Damn mind games!) I said, “no” to which she quickly replied, “I know you rented the movie.” She wanted to know where it was as she was going to take it back to the store before going back to work. I slowly admitted guilt and gave her the tape. I then, had to sit, for twenty minutes, while my mother asked if I rented the movie because I had questions about sex and love. I said no. I wanted to say, CB has HBO. I already know all this stuff. The simple truth was: I just wanted to see titties, mom!
Thus, never did I rent the softy porn again. But it didn’t stop me from recording it when we got free Cinemax for the weekend! (wink wink!) That’s a story for another day….
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Viking Years Pt. II
Valley View. Home of the Fighting Vikings. I always wondered who we were fighting? There were no athletic titles to defend. (I don’t think “500” counted) Were we, as these Norse Barbarians, fighting for academic superiority? Or were we defending our awesomeness? Maybe.
As Vikings, we told ourselves we were fighting the likes of the Monterrey Jaguars. Or possibly the Pecos Ponies. School pride was everything. I know. I was there. And I got the t-shirt! (Seriously, I had the Valley View Vikings t-shirt. I think I still have it somewhere.)
Although, I didn’t end my grade school days at Valley View, I will always be a Viking! I will be a Viking because that’s where my memories are (from 1979 to early 1985). That’s where my friends are.
Pretty sure things are a lot different at Valley View today than they were back in 1980s. Pretty sure, there are no more atomic bomb drills. Pretty sure, there are no more gigantic wooden paddles (with holes in it) hanging in the principle's office. Pretty sure, there are no more 25 cent cartons of milk. Pretty sure, those were the best times, regardless.
Some flash memories through the years:
First Grade:
The year that thought me that life is sometimes short. I remember the day when we were told as a class that a classmate had been killed by a drunk driver as she sat on the curb in front of her house.
Second Grade:
Girls. (do I need to say more?)
Third Grade:
Becoming a Latch Key Kid. After missing the van to the Building Bears Learning Center (no relation to the stuffed toy company), I refused to go to the after school day care after that. My mother took a chance and gave me a key to our apartment at Columbia Manor. A new chapter of life began: learn phone code of one ring, hang up, two rings, and its safe to answer; no you can’t make tea without turning on a stove; and, run to turn off TV when the door bell rings so strangers think no one’s home alone.
Fourth Grade:
The Math and Science teacher tears up when I respect him enough to call him by his real name. All the kids called him Mr. Boring. (get it? Like he’s boring and shit). I clearly remember when my mother informed me his name is Mr. BOREM. I was so embarrassed by it that I never called him Boring again. Let’s say that an average C Math student got a B that year!
Fifth Grade:
Mr. Cannon would tell stories from World War Two or as he said it, “double-u double-u 2”. He told stories of how he had to “kill the Japs” and fought in the “jungles of Saipan.” He would regale us with stories of how his thumb got blown off by a “jap grenade” and he could now remove it and put it back (this was followed by a visual demonstration).
Sixth Grade:
The year that broke the streak. My home room teacher that the kids had nicknamed Ms. Whore hated me. Or at least judged me for being a trouble maker and I was nothing of the kind. For the record I was a good kid. Yet, like any boy, there were incidents of mischief. (It’s not my fault that she groped herself as she read the book, Summer of the Monkeys) My mother tried to get her to change her opinion and give me a break. That failed. In the end, I would be transferred to the “other” school. I still wish she hadn’t done it.
As Vikings, we told ourselves we were fighting the likes of the Monterrey Jaguars. Or possibly the Pecos Ponies. School pride was everything. I know. I was there. And I got the t-shirt! (Seriously, I had the Valley View Vikings t-shirt. I think I still have it somewhere.)
Although, I didn’t end my grade school days at Valley View, I will always be a Viking! I will be a Viking because that’s where my memories are (from 1979 to early 1985). That’s where my friends are.
Pretty sure things are a lot different at Valley View today than they were back in 1980s. Pretty sure, there are no more atomic bomb drills. Pretty sure, there are no more gigantic wooden paddles (with holes in it) hanging in the principle's office. Pretty sure, there are no more 25 cent cartons of milk. Pretty sure, those were the best times, regardless.
Some flash memories through the years:
First Grade:
The year that thought me that life is sometimes short. I remember the day when we were told as a class that a classmate had been killed by a drunk driver as she sat on the curb in front of her house.
Second Grade:
Girls. (do I need to say more?)
Third Grade:
Becoming a Latch Key Kid. After missing the van to the Building Bears Learning Center (no relation to the stuffed toy company), I refused to go to the after school day care after that. My mother took a chance and gave me a key to our apartment at Columbia Manor. A new chapter of life began: learn phone code of one ring, hang up, two rings, and its safe to answer; no you can’t make tea without turning on a stove; and, run to turn off TV when the door bell rings so strangers think no one’s home alone.
Fourth Grade:
The Math and Science teacher tears up when I respect him enough to call him by his real name. All the kids called him Mr. Boring. (get it? Like he’s boring and shit). I clearly remember when my mother informed me his name is Mr. BOREM. I was so embarrassed by it that I never called him Boring again. Let’s say that an average C Math student got a B that year!
Fifth Grade:
Mr. Cannon would tell stories from World War Two or as he said it, “double-u double-u 2”. He told stories of how he had to “kill the Japs” and fought in the “jungles of Saipan.” He would regale us with stories of how his thumb got blown off by a “jap grenade” and he could now remove it and put it back (this was followed by a visual demonstration).
Sixth Grade:
The year that broke the streak. My home room teacher that the kids had nicknamed Ms. Whore hated me. Or at least judged me for being a trouble maker and I was nothing of the kind. For the record I was a good kid. Yet, like any boy, there were incidents of mischief. (It’s not my fault that she groped herself as she read the book, Summer of the Monkeys) My mother tried to get her to change her opinion and give me a break. That failed. In the end, I would be transferred to the “other” school. I still wish she hadn’t done it.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Two Girls at One Time!
I discovered girls quite early. Did I really discover them? It wasn’t like I was wearing a dusty leather jacket, bull whip and felt fedora searching some ancient desert looking for them. Nor was I reading legendary hieroglyphics about how to unlock some treasure known as “girls.” The discovery more or less found me. And then, there would be the times, the many times, these so-called “discoveries” would trigger some deathly booty trap (you mean booby trap). Yeah, booby trap! Forcing me to run, run away fast and fight for my sanity. Looking back, it would have been easier to avoid large rolling balls and half-naked murderous natives — a lot easier!
Yet, I know for a fact that I was consciously aware of girls, their Mary Janes and knee socks, as early as the Second Grade. 1980. I silently observed them from afar. One had definitely caught my attention. She had long blond hair, dimples and blue eyes. Yeah, those sparklers were blue.
Saturday nights, I would sneak back to my room to watch Barbara Mandrell and Mandrell Sisters Show. Although Barbara was a blond, it was her sisters Louise and Irlene that floated my boat. I thought Irene was HAWT! The three of them would wear those skin tight pants and wear really glossy lip gloss. Irene was goofy and a bit ditsy but she had that Colonel Wilma Deering flare to her. My mother caught me watching the show once. She asked about it and I quickly replied I was waiting for CHiPs. She bought it. Yet, she reminded me that CHiPs was on Sunday night.
Then, like Howard Carter, a major discovery found me. Sitting in Mrs. Carrell’s Second Grade classroom, Jenny and Katie began to stare. (Technically, their names were not Jenny and Katie. I have changed their names to protect their innocence or possibly protect mine. wink- wink.) The two girls flanked me; one on the right, one on the left. I was biting the eraser of my number two pencil, trying to ponder the answer to the difficult mathematical problem of 124 divided by 2, or something like that, when I noticed both girls looking at me and giggling. I rubbed my nose making sure I wasn’t dangling a booger and went back to my math problem. After they continued to stare, giggle and point in my direction, I lifted my hand forming a self-conscious point to my chest and mouthed the word, “me?” The two girls nodded. I immediately became paranoid. I checked my shoe laces. Damn! Velcro! Laughable, I know, but why today? I checked my hair. It was its usual bowl cut mop. It felt normal. I checked my zipper. Docking bay door was closed. Why were these chicks looking at me?
The rest of the events are vague so I’ll try and recall them the best I can. I think the answer would come in the form of a passed note. The two girls had scribbled on a small piece of wide ruled paper the question, “Can we be your girlfriend?” Hell yeah! I thought. But my body reacted differently. I acted dumbfounded. My heart pounded. My mind raced. I closed the note and opened it again. I looked to both Jenny and Katie. Both smiled like those girls on the Price Is Right. I looked to them and nodded. Jenny and Katie’s eyes blossomed with happiness.
An hour later, I sat on the playground and Jenny and Katie walked up and joined me. We laughed. We joked. I played hard to get. I tried to sneak a peek at their underwear. Damn shorts-under-skirts rule! I told them I’d walk them home. She smiled and both girls pecked me on the cheek.
As I walked back into Valley View, Shawn asked why I was hanging out with Jenny and Katie. I turned, tugged at my cuff, as only James Bond could do and responded, because I’m one sexy bitch! (okay, that’s not what I said.) My real response was “’cuz I always do two girls at one time.”
Yet, I know for a fact that I was consciously aware of girls, their Mary Janes and knee socks, as early as the Second Grade. 1980. I silently observed them from afar. One had definitely caught my attention. She had long blond hair, dimples and blue eyes. Yeah, those sparklers were blue.
Saturday nights, I would sneak back to my room to watch Barbara Mandrell and Mandrell Sisters Show. Although Barbara was a blond, it was her sisters Louise and Irlene that floated my boat. I thought Irene was HAWT! The three of them would wear those skin tight pants and wear really glossy lip gloss. Irene was goofy and a bit ditsy but she had that Colonel Wilma Deering flare to her. My mother caught me watching the show once. She asked about it and I quickly replied I was waiting for CHiPs. She bought it. Yet, she reminded me that CHiPs was on Sunday night.
Then, like Howard Carter, a major discovery found me. Sitting in Mrs. Carrell’s Second Grade classroom, Jenny and Katie began to stare. (Technically, their names were not Jenny and Katie. I have changed their names to protect their innocence or possibly protect mine. wink- wink.) The two girls flanked me; one on the right, one on the left. I was biting the eraser of my number two pencil, trying to ponder the answer to the difficult mathematical problem of 124 divided by 2, or something like that, when I noticed both girls looking at me and giggling. I rubbed my nose making sure I wasn’t dangling a booger and went back to my math problem. After they continued to stare, giggle and point in my direction, I lifted my hand forming a self-conscious point to my chest and mouthed the word, “me?” The two girls nodded. I immediately became paranoid. I checked my shoe laces. Damn! Velcro! Laughable, I know, but why today? I checked my hair. It was its usual bowl cut mop. It felt normal. I checked my zipper. Docking bay door was closed. Why were these chicks looking at me?
The rest of the events are vague so I’ll try and recall them the best I can. I think the answer would come in the form of a passed note. The two girls had scribbled on a small piece of wide ruled paper the question, “Can we be your girlfriend?” Hell yeah! I thought. But my body reacted differently. I acted dumbfounded. My heart pounded. My mind raced. I closed the note and opened it again. I looked to both Jenny and Katie. Both smiled like those girls on the Price Is Right. I looked to them and nodded. Jenny and Katie’s eyes blossomed with happiness.
An hour later, I sat on the playground and Jenny and Katie walked up and joined me. We laughed. We joked. I played hard to get. I tried to sneak a peek at their underwear. Damn shorts-under-skirts rule! I told them I’d walk them home. She smiled and both girls pecked me on the cheek.
As I walked back into Valley View, Shawn asked why I was hanging out with Jenny and Katie. I turned, tugged at my cuff, as only James Bond could do and responded, because I’m one sexy bitch! (okay, that’s not what I said.) My real response was “’cuz I always do two girls at one time.”
Friday, January 21, 2011
Where’s his Head, Shawn!?
When I was 6 years old, there was only one thing I cared about. Star Wars. I had only seen the movie maybe two times by mid-1978. But I had the Storybook, 45 record and the coloring books. I was a Star Wars expert (for a 6 year old anyways).
During the summer of 1978, my great Aunt and Uncle Viv and Wade made their annual visit to New Mexico from Peoria Illinois. They knew how much I loved Star Wars so my Uncle Wade drove me over to the Kmart on Hobbs and Main and gently walked me to the toy department. He had heard that Star Wars had some new action figure toys out. We entered the toy isle to find hundreds of action figures on the pegs and in displays around the toy department. I started to look through them and got really excited that I could get Darth Vader (with a lightsaber that slid out from his arm) or a Stormtrooper. Per the back of the card, there were 12 different figures in all. He didn’t buy me a few. He bought them all. It wasn’t even Christmas. We left that store with all 12 figures and that was one of the happiest days of my life.
We went back to our apartment (a duplex-style house on the old Walker Air Force Base now converted into Roswell Industrial Air Center). The place was always cold even in the summer. It was cinder block and had black tile floors. No amount of rugs would keep the floors warm to bare feet. It was hard to hang posters and pictures because the walls felt and looked like concrete. I remember sitting in the living room in front of our new 1977 Zenith and ripping all those carded figures open and proceeding to have large gun and lightsaber battles. Even little Jawas weren’t safe from Darth Vader’s blade. (If I could go back in time, I’d convince my Uncle that he needed to buy me a second set to leave Mint on the Card, but I digress).
Across the street, a friend of my mother (who she worked with) and her son lived in a similar but larger version of our duplex concrete apartment. Thus, for the early parts of my childhood he was my best friend. We’d ride bikes and explore the train tracks that were just outside the fence line of RIAC. We bragged about new toys. I would show off the Star Wars figures. He would show off either the Space 1999 starship or Micronauts. During one afternoon while I was playing with one of his Micronauts and he was happy having gun battles with Han Solo, he asked if he could borrow it. My first response was “hell no!” Star Wars was the world to me. There was nothing I loved more than those figures. I also didn’t loan many toys as I didn’t have much and took great care in my toys. Yet, after him begging and saying I could borrow all of his Micronauts, I reluctantly agreed.
Days went by. I was worried about my Han Solo but I convinced myself that he was in good hands and I had his toys thus we'd be all good, right?
I went outside and saw him playing. I walked over and asked nicely, "Can I have my Han Solo back?" He looked at me with concern. He stumbled and slowly replied, "sure." My blood pressure rose but I was anxious to get my Han Solo back. Besides, Luke and Ben were not able to rescue the Princess without him. He went inside and returned a few minutes later. He extended his arm and I opened my hand ready to get my beloved Han Solo figure back. Plop. Han Solo fell to my palm. "Where's his Head, Shawn!!??" Han Solo had been beheaded. Shock then anger then sorrow. Shawn shook his head. "You're kidding me, right?" I said. (now the following may or may not have been said. remember I was only 6.) "I loan you one of my most favorite figures and you have the balls to return him with no fuckin' head!" I repeated myself. "Where's his fuckin' head!?" As I started to inspect the rest of Han Solo, his arm fell off. Jesus! Han Solo just lost his fuckin' arm!! Moving his legs back and forth, his left leg fell to the ground. Shit! Han Solo is now a paraplegic! What horrors did this action figure go through to suffer such violence and damage.
He knew I was not only sad but angry. He told me I could keep his Micronauts. Thing was, I didn't want is farking Micronauts. I wanted my Han Solo. I was so distraught that I dropped Han Solo and ran home. I told my mother and then I cried. She promised to get me a new one but that day never came. It taught me a lesson and forced me to be a selfish bastard that never shared his toys again. There were many many times that I said, "no way Jose" when someone wanted to borrow my Snake Eyes (the one with two Uzis) or Go-bots.
This sad story would get a happy ending. 15 years later, I would find a Han Solo at Starbase 10 in Albuquerque. He cost $20 bucks but he was worth it. He's in my displace case right now. And no, you can't borrow him!
During the summer of 1978, my great Aunt and Uncle Viv and Wade made their annual visit to New Mexico from Peoria Illinois. They knew how much I loved Star Wars so my Uncle Wade drove me over to the Kmart on Hobbs and Main and gently walked me to the toy department. He had heard that Star Wars had some new action figure toys out. We entered the toy isle to find hundreds of action figures on the pegs and in displays around the toy department. I started to look through them and got really excited that I could get Darth Vader (with a lightsaber that slid out from his arm) or a Stormtrooper. Per the back of the card, there were 12 different figures in all. He didn’t buy me a few. He bought them all. It wasn’t even Christmas. We left that store with all 12 figures and that was one of the happiest days of my life.
We went back to our apartment (a duplex-style house on the old Walker Air Force Base now converted into Roswell Industrial Air Center). The place was always cold even in the summer. It was cinder block and had black tile floors. No amount of rugs would keep the floors warm to bare feet. It was hard to hang posters and pictures because the walls felt and looked like concrete. I remember sitting in the living room in front of our new 1977 Zenith and ripping all those carded figures open and proceeding to have large gun and lightsaber battles. Even little Jawas weren’t safe from Darth Vader’s blade. (If I could go back in time, I’d convince my Uncle that he needed to buy me a second set to leave Mint on the Card, but I digress).
Across the street, a friend of my mother (who she worked with) and her son lived in a similar but larger version of our duplex concrete apartment. Thus, for the early parts of my childhood he was my best friend. We’d ride bikes and explore the train tracks that were just outside the fence line of RIAC. We bragged about new toys. I would show off the Star Wars figures. He would show off either the Space 1999 starship or Micronauts. During one afternoon while I was playing with one of his Micronauts and he was happy having gun battles with Han Solo, he asked if he could borrow it. My first response was “hell no!” Star Wars was the world to me. There was nothing I loved more than those figures. I also didn’t loan many toys as I didn’t have much and took great care in my toys. Yet, after him begging and saying I could borrow all of his Micronauts, I reluctantly agreed.
Days went by. I was worried about my Han Solo but I convinced myself that he was in good hands and I had his toys thus we'd be all good, right?
I went outside and saw him playing. I walked over and asked nicely, "Can I have my Han Solo back?" He looked at me with concern. He stumbled and slowly replied, "sure." My blood pressure rose but I was anxious to get my Han Solo back. Besides, Luke and Ben were not able to rescue the Princess without him. He went inside and returned a few minutes later. He extended his arm and I opened my hand ready to get my beloved Han Solo figure back. Plop. Han Solo fell to my palm. "Where's his Head, Shawn!!??" Han Solo had been beheaded. Shock then anger then sorrow. Shawn shook his head. "You're kidding me, right?" I said. (now the following may or may not have been said. remember I was only 6.) "I loan you one of my most favorite figures and you have the balls to return him with no fuckin' head!" I repeated myself. "Where's his fuckin' head!?" As I started to inspect the rest of Han Solo, his arm fell off. Jesus! Han Solo just lost his fuckin' arm!! Moving his legs back and forth, his left leg fell to the ground. Shit! Han Solo is now a paraplegic! What horrors did this action figure go through to suffer such violence and damage.
He knew I was not only sad but angry. He told me I could keep his Micronauts. Thing was, I didn't want is farking Micronauts. I wanted my Han Solo. I was so distraught that I dropped Han Solo and ran home. I told my mother and then I cried. She promised to get me a new one but that day never came. It taught me a lesson and forced me to be a selfish bastard that never shared his toys again. There were many many times that I said, "no way Jose" when someone wanted to borrow my Snake Eyes (the one with two Uzis) or Go-bots.
This sad story would get a happy ending. 15 years later, I would find a Han Solo at Starbase 10 in Albuquerque. He cost $20 bucks but he was worth it. He's in my displace case right now. And no, you can't borrow him!
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Give me my Bear Claw, Dammit!
Growing up, we weren’t the wealthiest family on the block. As I stated before, I was raised by a single mother who worked her butt off to support us. Since my mother worked six days a week, I was raised by a good helping from my Grandmother, babysitters, surrogate grandparents (i.e. the great and wonderful Grandma Combs) and reruns of Happy Days.
During the early 1980s, we lived in an aging apartment complex named Columbia Manor. It was flanked by two open fields and sat across the street from Roswell High School. The complex looked as if it was possibly two different buildings converted into one larger entity. The architecture was a blending of Colonial meets 1960’s flare and angles. Part of the building stood on stilts above a lower part, making a lower case t. Between the two major buildings was a football field sized court yard with twelve large oak trees. (Several were climbing favorites and I would hide in them from time to time.) The swimming pool sat at the far end of the courtyard, next to the management office. Outside the small laundry room, a Dr.Pepper machine sold cans of soda for only 25 cents. That machine is why my favorite soda growing up was Dr. Pepper. Never was a Pepsi drinker although Roswell was the site of a large Pepsi bottling plant and employed most of the area. The manager was this wrinkly old lady with short silver hair that looked like Jane Wyman and the mother on Bewitched. Her office was dark and smelled of cigarette smoke. It always scared me a bit to go inside. She had an affinity for clocks. I remember one in particular; it was a clock of a wino leaning on a light post and he would sip from his bottle in sync with the second hand. The bottle and Lamp Post were lit with an eerie pale orange. I would stare at it for minutes. It was the first time I’d ever seen something like that. (she also had one of a cat, that the eyes would go back in forth, along with the tail.)
The one thing that made this apartment complex memorable was its proximity to Tastee Freeze, Long John Silvers and a Doughnut Shop. I can’t remember the name of the Doughnut Shop so I’ll call it Sunrise Doughnuts. This name may actually be the name but I can not state that for fact. The shop would later get beat out by the Daylight Doughnuts that would open down the street in the old Kentucky Fried Chicken building. Yet, during those early years of the 1980s, my mother would give me a couple bucks every Sunday Morning before Church and I would walk over to Sunrise Doughnuts to get a Bavarian Crème Long John and a Bear Claw. (Mine was the Bear Claw of course!)
On one of those Sunday mornings, I walked over to Sunrise Doughnuts and waited to be called on. I waited. And waited. I must also preface that I wasn’t a very outgoing little kid. I was quite shy and very rarely spoke out. I wasn’t more than 8 years old at this time. So, there I stood, standing there in my pressed collar shirt and clip-on tie. (We were going to church after all.) The two old ladies behind the glass case were the same two old ladies there every Sunday. With my two dollars in hand, I would look to them and wait for the all important cue: “Can I help you?” “Yes, please, one Baffarian (kid’s lisp) Crème Long John and one chocolate Bear Claw.” But that morning, the cue never happened. I looked at the two crusty wenches. They looked right at me and then directed their, “Can I help you?” to the stupid adults behind me. I grew angry and upset. I knew those dumb doughnut slingers recognized me. I was the same cute Norman Rockwell kid that patronized your establishment every fucking Sunday! (again, I don’t think this was the actual language in my 8 year old mind but we’ll pretend.) I waited. And I waited longer. I stepped closer to the glass case. I stepped to the counter. Each and every time, those D-holes ignored me. Give me my Bear Claw Dammit!
I ran from the Doughnut Shop. I ran home, across the dirt field and through the chain link fence of the court yard. Running through the sliding glass door of the apartment’s patio, my mother asked, “what took so long?” I had been gone nearly thirty minutes. (Sunrise Doughnuts was only 100 feet away.) Tears were forming in my eyes. My mother knew I was upset. She looked to my hands and saw the two dollars still clutched in my little fist. She asked me what happened. I shouted, “they wouldn’t help me!” She said “what?!” I explained that I waited and waited. Now, she was angry. She told me to get in the car. “We’re driving over there right now!” My mother yanked the steering wheel and entered their small lot with a sharp turn, flipped the engine off and pulled the emergency break. She hopped out and I instinctively followed behind. I still had the two dollars in my hand. When the lady asked her “can I help you?” within moments of us walking through the door she said, “yeah, where’s your manager?” Once the manager appeared, my mother became a bulldog. She spoke loudly so all the customers could hear. She ripped into them like a blaster goes through Stormtrooper Armor. If that moment had a soundtrack, it would have been calked full of slapping and punching noises of any Bruce Lee movie. She verbally. Kicked. Their. ASS! She spun on her heel and grabbed my hand and we left.
I don’t recall how long it was before I got the courage to go back and try it again. But I know, I was never ignored there again. The way I remember it was, those old crows always said, “sorry for making you wait Mr. Whitfield. Your Bear Claw is coming right up, Mr. Whitfield. It’s still warm and gooey, Mr Whitfield.“ Yeah. Take that Bitches!!
During the early 1980s, we lived in an aging apartment complex named Columbia Manor. It was flanked by two open fields and sat across the street from Roswell High School. The complex looked as if it was possibly two different buildings converted into one larger entity. The architecture was a blending of Colonial meets 1960’s flare and angles. Part of the building stood on stilts above a lower part, making a lower case t. Between the two major buildings was a football field sized court yard with twelve large oak trees. (Several were climbing favorites and I would hide in them from time to time.) The swimming pool sat at the far end of the courtyard, next to the management office. Outside the small laundry room, a Dr.Pepper machine sold cans of soda for only 25 cents. That machine is why my favorite soda growing up was Dr. Pepper. Never was a Pepsi drinker although Roswell was the site of a large Pepsi bottling plant and employed most of the area. The manager was this wrinkly old lady with short silver hair that looked like Jane Wyman and the mother on Bewitched. Her office was dark and smelled of cigarette smoke. It always scared me a bit to go inside. She had an affinity for clocks. I remember one in particular; it was a clock of a wino leaning on a light post and he would sip from his bottle in sync with the second hand. The bottle and Lamp Post were lit with an eerie pale orange. I would stare at it for minutes. It was the first time I’d ever seen something like that. (she also had one of a cat, that the eyes would go back in forth, along with the tail.)
The one thing that made this apartment complex memorable was its proximity to Tastee Freeze, Long John Silvers and a Doughnut Shop. I can’t remember the name of the Doughnut Shop so I’ll call it Sunrise Doughnuts. This name may actually be the name but I can not state that for fact. The shop would later get beat out by the Daylight Doughnuts that would open down the street in the old Kentucky Fried Chicken building. Yet, during those early years of the 1980s, my mother would give me a couple bucks every Sunday Morning before Church and I would walk over to Sunrise Doughnuts to get a Bavarian Crème Long John and a Bear Claw. (Mine was the Bear Claw of course!)
On one of those Sunday mornings, I walked over to Sunrise Doughnuts and waited to be called on. I waited. And waited. I must also preface that I wasn’t a very outgoing little kid. I was quite shy and very rarely spoke out. I wasn’t more than 8 years old at this time. So, there I stood, standing there in my pressed collar shirt and clip-on tie. (We were going to church after all.) The two old ladies behind the glass case were the same two old ladies there every Sunday. With my two dollars in hand, I would look to them and wait for the all important cue: “Can I help you?” “Yes, please, one Baffarian (kid’s lisp) Crème Long John and one chocolate Bear Claw.” But that morning, the cue never happened. I looked at the two crusty wenches. They looked right at me and then directed their, “Can I help you?” to the stupid adults behind me. I grew angry and upset. I knew those dumb doughnut slingers recognized me. I was the same cute Norman Rockwell kid that patronized your establishment every fucking Sunday! (again, I don’t think this was the actual language in my 8 year old mind but we’ll pretend.) I waited. And I waited longer. I stepped closer to the glass case. I stepped to the counter. Each and every time, those D-holes ignored me. Give me my Bear Claw Dammit!
I ran from the Doughnut Shop. I ran home, across the dirt field and through the chain link fence of the court yard. Running through the sliding glass door of the apartment’s patio, my mother asked, “what took so long?” I had been gone nearly thirty minutes. (Sunrise Doughnuts was only 100 feet away.) Tears were forming in my eyes. My mother knew I was upset. She looked to my hands and saw the two dollars still clutched in my little fist. She asked me what happened. I shouted, “they wouldn’t help me!” She said “what?!” I explained that I waited and waited. Now, she was angry. She told me to get in the car. “We’re driving over there right now!” My mother yanked the steering wheel and entered their small lot with a sharp turn, flipped the engine off and pulled the emergency break. She hopped out and I instinctively followed behind. I still had the two dollars in my hand. When the lady asked her “can I help you?” within moments of us walking through the door she said, “yeah, where’s your manager?” Once the manager appeared, my mother became a bulldog. She spoke loudly so all the customers could hear. She ripped into them like a blaster goes through Stormtrooper Armor. If that moment had a soundtrack, it would have been calked full of slapping and punching noises of any Bruce Lee movie. She verbally. Kicked. Their. ASS! She spun on her heel and grabbed my hand and we left.
I don’t recall how long it was before I got the courage to go back and try it again. But I know, I was never ignored there again. The way I remember it was, those old crows always said, “sorry for making you wait Mr. Whitfield. Your Bear Claw is coming right up, Mr. Whitfield. It’s still warm and gooey, Mr Whitfield.“ Yeah. Take that Bitches!!
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
One RAD BMX!!
It was the RAD-est BMX racer ever! It was smoke silver with red pads and black mag wheels. It arrived one Christmas. 1984. No, maybe 1983. Yeah, 1983! Either way, the bike was my most precious possession. For the first time, I had something other kids didn’t. They envied it and I was proud.
I took the bike to the pits on Sunset Ave. I raced it behind the ALCO. Rode it home from school everyday and went to friends’ houses on the weekends. For an eleven year old boy, it was the closest thing to a car that any sixteen-year-old would envy. It gave me freedom to ride to the Five and Dime to buy gum for only a penny. Blazed through empty fields on dusty dirt trails. Popped curbs around Roswell High School and hopped down the steps in the back of the school. I would peddle as fast as I could through the Fire Lane and shoot out into the parking lot by the apartment complex we lived in.
One Sunday in 1984, it would be taken from me. It would haunt my days and fueled my nightmares.
Riding back from CB’s house one Sunday afternoon, unknown to me, I was being followed. My care free attitude and naïve love for life at eleven. I rode home like any other: down Roswell High’s fire lane, through the lot, across Penn Ave and into the long parking lot of Columbia Manor Apartments. I circled around the end of the building and up on the sidewalk, weaved through the gate and popped the kickstand. I opened the sliding glass door to find my mother on the couch watching some old western on KCAL.
I was inside no more than a few minutes. Maybe only 2 minutes. My mother was asking if I wanted to go over to Tastee Freeze and get a couple Banana Splits. The phone rang. It was a guy that my mother worked with and happened to live six apartments down. I can’t remember his name, so I’ll call him Danny. Danny was asking if I knew where my bike was. He spoke really fast. He stated he saw me ride home a few minutes earlier. My mother asked me to get my bike. Danny is talking hurriedly saying he’s looking at two Hispanic men loading what appears to be my bike into their late model Chevy Monte Carlo. I pull the curtains back to find my bike GONE! Someone took my bike! My mother panicked. She hung up the phone but not before Danny said he was calling 911.
I ran outside, looking for my bike. Who would have done this? Tears rolled down my face. My mother tried to calm me down. Within minutes, a police car sat in front of our apartment. Danny was talking to them. The police officer was talking on the radio. Danny had given the police not only the car description but the license plate and descriptions of the two men. The officer took the report and within 15 minutes had the suspects. My heart raced. Thank God! My bike was found! I looked to the officer with eager anticipation. He shook his head as the other officer on the radio stated, “negative on silver BMX bike.” Where is my bike? What did the assholes do with it? (I don’t think I was using that language in my 11-year-old mind but I will say I was.) Within minutes, these dildo-heads had stolen my bike and ditched it somewhere. My sorrow and anger returned. The officer left stating they would continue to search the area looking for my bike.
Hours turned to days. Days turned to weeks. I never saw the bike again. I still, to this day, wish I could find those dipshits and punch them in the face until my knuckles bleed. Those shit-eaters not only stole but they scarred a little boy’s view of the world. Those days after it was stolen, my mind raced. What could have I done differently? Should I have brought it inside? Or just left the curtains open to the patio. I internalized the trauma with daydreams of Batman and Robin swinging down to stop the thieves. I envisioned myself as a dark vigilante catching them in the act and throwing ninja stars into their chest and arms. As the years went on, I healed. But I still think about that bike and that day, even 27 years later. And I still wish I could knee the little pig fuckers in the balls!!
I took the bike to the pits on Sunset Ave. I raced it behind the ALCO. Rode it home from school everyday and went to friends’ houses on the weekends. For an eleven year old boy, it was the closest thing to a car that any sixteen-year-old would envy. It gave me freedom to ride to the Five and Dime to buy gum for only a penny. Blazed through empty fields on dusty dirt trails. Popped curbs around Roswell High School and hopped down the steps in the back of the school. I would peddle as fast as I could through the Fire Lane and shoot out into the parking lot by the apartment complex we lived in.
One Sunday in 1984, it would be taken from me. It would haunt my days and fueled my nightmares.
Riding back from CB’s house one Sunday afternoon, unknown to me, I was being followed. My care free attitude and naïve love for life at eleven. I rode home like any other: down Roswell High’s fire lane, through the lot, across Penn Ave and into the long parking lot of Columbia Manor Apartments. I circled around the end of the building and up on the sidewalk, weaved through the gate and popped the kickstand. I opened the sliding glass door to find my mother on the couch watching some old western on KCAL.
I was inside no more than a few minutes. Maybe only 2 minutes. My mother was asking if I wanted to go over to Tastee Freeze and get a couple Banana Splits. The phone rang. It was a guy that my mother worked with and happened to live six apartments down. I can’t remember his name, so I’ll call him Danny. Danny was asking if I knew where my bike was. He spoke really fast. He stated he saw me ride home a few minutes earlier. My mother asked me to get my bike. Danny is talking hurriedly saying he’s looking at two Hispanic men loading what appears to be my bike into their late model Chevy Monte Carlo. I pull the curtains back to find my bike GONE! Someone took my bike! My mother panicked. She hung up the phone but not before Danny said he was calling 911.
I ran outside, looking for my bike. Who would have done this? Tears rolled down my face. My mother tried to calm me down. Within minutes, a police car sat in front of our apartment. Danny was talking to them. The police officer was talking on the radio. Danny had given the police not only the car description but the license plate and descriptions of the two men. The officer took the report and within 15 minutes had the suspects. My heart raced. Thank God! My bike was found! I looked to the officer with eager anticipation. He shook his head as the other officer on the radio stated, “negative on silver BMX bike.” Where is my bike? What did the assholes do with it? (I don’t think I was using that language in my 11-year-old mind but I will say I was.) Within minutes, these dildo-heads had stolen my bike and ditched it somewhere. My sorrow and anger returned. The officer left stating they would continue to search the area looking for my bike.
Hours turned to days. Days turned to weeks. I never saw the bike again. I still, to this day, wish I could find those dipshits and punch them in the face until my knuckles bleed. Those shit-eaters not only stole but they scarred a little boy’s view of the world. Those days after it was stolen, my mind raced. What could have I done differently? Should I have brought it inside? Or just left the curtains open to the patio. I internalized the trauma with daydreams of Batman and Robin swinging down to stop the thieves. I envisioned myself as a dark vigilante catching them in the act and throwing ninja stars into their chest and arms. As the years went on, I healed. But I still think about that bike and that day, even 27 years later. And I still wish I could knee the little pig fuckers in the balls!!
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
The Viking Years Pt. 1
I attended Valley View Elementary from the years 1979 to 1985. It was a K-6 Grade School. Starting in the First Grade and ending just shy of completing the Sixth Grade, I was a proud Viking. Valley View Vikings. I did not attend Kindergarten there as my mother had sent me to a private school called Child Garden(?). (the only memory of that school was witnessing my first solar eclipse while playing on the playground.)
The school was a L-shaped building with the grades 1-3 in the lower part of the L and 4-6 grade in the upper part of the L. Made from red brick and having the features of large windows in every room, the school smelled like the 1960s. The bricks gave it a sturdy construction and security to the hallways, when in the 2nd and 3rd grade, we ran and ducked in part of our Nuclear Disaster Drills. Those were the years when the USA had boycotted the Olympics in the USSR. And the Russians would do the same in 1984. Tensions were high. Soviets were great bad guys. Second only to Nazis. (back on track) The fire alarm were sound more like a klaxon and we'd run to the halls and squat in the fetal position. Not sure if we'd have survived a nuclear attack but I was only 8 or so.
I once told someone that story and they thought it odd we had Nuclear War Emergency procedures in such a small cowboy town like Roswell New Mexico. The theory and ideology was Roswell, although Walker Air Force Base had closed in the late 60s, was still a target on Russian, uh I mean Soviet, missile charts. The reason was Roswell's I A C or Industrial Air Center, had one of the longest commercial runways in the world at the time. It had been built decades earlier to compliment the B-29 Bombers that were part of the 509th Strategic Bombing Wing. During the 1970s and 1980s the runways were still being used to test commercial and military aircraft. In the end, it made a bunch of kids from a forgotten town feel like they were important, I guess.
Sometime in the early 1980s, 3rd or 4th grade, construction on a gymnasium was completed. I remember everyone being really excited as we could have PE indoors during cold spells and we could move away from the very small cafeteria. I remember it was so vast and huge. (not so much when I would return in my High School years) The north wall had the folded bench tables and wall painted in a Rainbow scheme. (I wonder now what the PC decor would be as rainbows aren't just known for Unicorn riding little girls) Even had our 5th Grade Class Photo shot inside it, moving it from the Library where we had the pictures taken in the past. Ropes hung from the rafter beams; Dodge ball wars were fought; lunch was served on segmented trays there everyday; it was the site of the 1982 staged musical with CB as E.T.;and, it housed after-school Break Dance challenges, where spinning on your back and crawling like a centipede on cardboard gave boys cool reputations.
The school was a L-shaped building with the grades 1-3 in the lower part of the L and 4-6 grade in the upper part of the L. Made from red brick and having the features of large windows in every room, the school smelled like the 1960s. The bricks gave it a sturdy construction and security to the hallways, when in the 2nd and 3rd grade, we ran and ducked in part of our Nuclear Disaster Drills. Those were the years when the USA had boycotted the Olympics in the USSR. And the Russians would do the same in 1984. Tensions were high. Soviets were great bad guys. Second only to Nazis. (back on track) The fire alarm were sound more like a klaxon and we'd run to the halls and squat in the fetal position. Not sure if we'd have survived a nuclear attack but I was only 8 or so.
I once told someone that story and they thought it odd we had Nuclear War Emergency procedures in such a small cowboy town like Roswell New Mexico. The theory and ideology was Roswell, although Walker Air Force Base had closed in the late 60s, was still a target on Russian, uh I mean Soviet, missile charts. The reason was Roswell's I A C or Industrial Air Center, had one of the longest commercial runways in the world at the time. It had been built decades earlier to compliment the B-29 Bombers that were part of the 509th Strategic Bombing Wing. During the 1970s and 1980s the runways were still being used to test commercial and military aircraft. In the end, it made a bunch of kids from a forgotten town feel like they were important, I guess.
Sometime in the early 1980s, 3rd or 4th grade, construction on a gymnasium was completed. I remember everyone being really excited as we could have PE indoors during cold spells and we could move away from the very small cafeteria. I remember it was so vast and huge. (not so much when I would return in my High School years) The north wall had the folded bench tables and wall painted in a Rainbow scheme. (I wonder now what the PC decor would be as rainbows aren't just known for Unicorn riding little girls) Even had our 5th Grade Class Photo shot inside it, moving it from the Library where we had the pictures taken in the past. Ropes hung from the rafter beams; Dodge ball wars were fought; lunch was served on segmented trays there everyday; it was the site of the 1982 staged musical with CB as E.T.;and, it housed after-school Break Dance challenges, where spinning on your back and crawling like a centipede on cardboard gave boys cool reputations.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Geek is Good!
I heard today that Geek is Good. Geek is In. Geek is Cool.
Well, its about time!
Although, I wouldn't trade my childhood for anything (besides maybe changing a few things that I know now of course. Oh, and buying some stock in Starbucks or Apple Computers) But maybe Geek could have been popular when I was a kid.
I can't recall how many times that prissy girls or sporty guys on the playground would make fun of me because I wanted to play Justice League over 500 (a game of one person throwing a football at a crowd of recievers. The thrower would yell how much its worth. If caught, thats the points you'd earn. The first person to 500 would become the thrower.)
The cool dudes and the popular chicks would make fun of my Superman II lunch box or Star Wars velco sneakers. The names were usually just nerd or goober. It was okay. I loved my lunch box and my shoes more than them.
There was a time when I was about 23ish (say 1995). I was collecting Star Wars toys and selling my leftovers at a thing called a Toy Show (eBay eventually killed the novelty of selling toys at Holiday Inns) and looking up to find someone asking a question on a near mint 1979 Star Wars Jawa figure, complete with "cloth" cape and gun. The voice was rather soft for a guy. To my surprise, it was a rather attractive girl. We started talking and let's say flirting. Then the guy behind her (I would learn was her boyfriend) was totally giving her the "I'm bored can we go now babe?" vibe. I pondered this paradox like feeling that I found the first instance of a hawt girl liking Star Wars and the boyfriend thinking it lame and nerdy. (for the record I had come across other girls that liked Star Wars and Comics, but this one was actually good looking!) If I had the balls back then I would have asked for her phone number. Who cares what the boyfriend thought?
Fast forward 15 years. Now everywhere I turn around, there's actually runway model hot girls liking Star Wars and comics. And they don't hide it. Geek is the new Cool. We aren't the minority anymore.
I do admit that I was so blinded by the fact that the really cute girls didn't like the things that I liked, that I actually overlooked one in High School. And she was captain of the Varisty Cheerleading Squad. Who'd thunk, eh?
Well, its about time!
Although, I wouldn't trade my childhood for anything (besides maybe changing a few things that I know now of course. Oh, and buying some stock in Starbucks or Apple Computers) But maybe Geek could have been popular when I was a kid.
I can't recall how many times that prissy girls or sporty guys on the playground would make fun of me because I wanted to play Justice League over 500 (a game of one person throwing a football at a crowd of recievers. The thrower would yell how much its worth. If caught, thats the points you'd earn. The first person to 500 would become the thrower.)
The cool dudes and the popular chicks would make fun of my Superman II lunch box or Star Wars velco sneakers. The names were usually just nerd or goober. It was okay. I loved my lunch box and my shoes more than them.
There was a time when I was about 23ish (say 1995). I was collecting Star Wars toys and selling my leftovers at a thing called a Toy Show (eBay eventually killed the novelty of selling toys at Holiday Inns) and looking up to find someone asking a question on a near mint 1979 Star Wars Jawa figure, complete with "cloth" cape and gun. The voice was rather soft for a guy. To my surprise, it was a rather attractive girl. We started talking and let's say flirting. Then the guy behind her (I would learn was her boyfriend) was totally giving her the "I'm bored can we go now babe?" vibe. I pondered this paradox like feeling that I found the first instance of a hawt girl liking Star Wars and the boyfriend thinking it lame and nerdy. (for the record I had come across other girls that liked Star Wars and Comics, but this one was actually good looking!) If I had the balls back then I would have asked for her phone number. Who cares what the boyfriend thought?
Fast forward 15 years. Now everywhere I turn around, there's actually runway model hot girls liking Star Wars and comics. And they don't hide it. Geek is the new Cool. We aren't the minority anymore.
I do admit that I was so blinded by the fact that the really cute girls didn't like the things that I liked, that I actually overlooked one in High School. And she was captain of the Varisty Cheerleading Squad. Who'd thunk, eh?
Monday, January 10, 2011
It's Slick as Snot Out There!
Waking up to snow was, and always will be, the best part of growing up. Why was it such a big deal? Well, growing up in Roswell New Mexico meant it didn't happen very often. Second, it usually meant that we didn't need much to bring the town to its knees and for school to be cancelled.
I was spoiled when it came to snow. This is something that my daughter will not enjoy as Denver is much more familiar to the fluffy white powder. See, unless Denver gets over 24 inches, they don't even notice. Golf courses still book tee times. And cute girls still wear cutoff jeans with a parka. And thus today, with nearly 10 inches on the sidewalks and streets, Denver Public Schools were still running like nothing happened. Not so, when I was young.
I don't remember the specific dates but usually the snow fell in a few inches. We'd quickly turn on KBIM Channel 10. The big story would be the 2 or 3 inches of snow that hit the ground and it was always followed by "schools will be closed today." This statement was normally followed by a quick arm tuck followed by a exclamation of "yes!" I would run back to my room and throw Pitfall into the Coleco Gemini(side story: yes, I had a Coleco Gemini. I like every other 10 year old wanted an Atari 2600. Yet the dang thing was too expensive. But Santa (or Santa's proxy) brought me a Coleco Gemini. Basically a Atari 2600 clone. It took Atari cartridges and other than a different controller design it played no different. What can you do, right?)
As I was playing my game and trying to get Pitfall Harry over the crocodiles, my mother still was preparing to go to work. Although schools closed, the business world did not. She would leave and I would ask if I could go outside later. She would agree but only on the promise I would "bundle up."
Snow days were the coolest.
One that I do remember more than others when the area was blanketed by at least 6 inches. Thinking it was early 80s, 1983 or 1984. My mother had gone off to Chewnings to work and not only was it a "snow day" but with so much snow, the next day was looking to be a "snow day" too! I bundled up as I promised and first tried riding my bike over to CB's house. That didn't work out to well as even BMX tires wont cut through snow pack. His house was about four or five blocks away. I ditched the bike and set out on foot. The journey included but not limited to: sidewalks, streets, an open field and alleys. As I started across the field, I began to reenact the classic scene from Empire Strikes Back. I struggled through the snow drifts. Fell to the ground. Crawling and lifting my head, "Ben? Ben!?" Luke, you will go to the Dagobah system and learn from the Jedi Master who instructed me. I laugh at the memory wondering if anyone was watching this 12 year old kid falling in the snow and thinking I was really in trouble.
It took about an hour to trek through the white stuff. Once at CB's house, we prepared his front yard for the ultimate snow ball fight. We built trenches, snow walls and cache of snowballs. Hours of preparation and the battle lasted exactly 3 minutes 47 seconds. (obviously we didn't time it but it was very quick) Covered in snow. Our jeans and clothes soaked with icy water. We raced inside to warm up by the crackling fire. Once dried out and warmed, I would head home.
In the days prior to cell phones, I called my mother before I left, when I arrived at CB's, when I left CB's and when I arrived back home. Each time I called to inform my mother I was safe and leaving, she would say, be careful out there, "It's as slick as snot." She said this when it snowed regardless if I was walking, riding a bike or catching a ride from someone's parents. And she continues to say it even today as I load my daughter in the car to get her to school. "Be careful, it's slick as snot out there!"
I was spoiled when it came to snow. This is something that my daughter will not enjoy as Denver is much more familiar to the fluffy white powder. See, unless Denver gets over 24 inches, they don't even notice. Golf courses still book tee times. And cute girls still wear cutoff jeans with a parka. And thus today, with nearly 10 inches on the sidewalks and streets, Denver Public Schools were still running like nothing happened. Not so, when I was young.
I don't remember the specific dates but usually the snow fell in a few inches. We'd quickly turn on KBIM Channel 10. The big story would be the 2 or 3 inches of snow that hit the ground and it was always followed by "schools will be closed today." This statement was normally followed by a quick arm tuck followed by a exclamation of "yes!" I would run back to my room and throw Pitfall into the Coleco Gemini(side story: yes, I had a Coleco Gemini. I like every other 10 year old wanted an Atari 2600. Yet the dang thing was too expensive. But Santa (or Santa's proxy) brought me a Coleco Gemini. Basically a Atari 2600 clone. It took Atari cartridges and other than a different controller design it played no different. What can you do, right?)
As I was playing my game and trying to get Pitfall Harry over the crocodiles, my mother still was preparing to go to work. Although schools closed, the business world did not. She would leave and I would ask if I could go outside later. She would agree but only on the promise I would "bundle up."
Snow days were the coolest.
One that I do remember more than others when the area was blanketed by at least 6 inches. Thinking it was early 80s, 1983 or 1984. My mother had gone off to Chewnings to work and not only was it a "snow day" but with so much snow, the next day was looking to be a "snow day" too! I bundled up as I promised and first tried riding my bike over to CB's house. That didn't work out to well as even BMX tires wont cut through snow pack. His house was about four or five blocks away. I ditched the bike and set out on foot. The journey included but not limited to: sidewalks, streets, an open field and alleys. As I started across the field, I began to reenact the classic scene from Empire Strikes Back. I struggled through the snow drifts. Fell to the ground. Crawling and lifting my head, "Ben? Ben!?" Luke, you will go to the Dagobah system and learn from the Jedi Master who instructed me. I laugh at the memory wondering if anyone was watching this 12 year old kid falling in the snow and thinking I was really in trouble.
It took about an hour to trek through the white stuff. Once at CB's house, we prepared his front yard for the ultimate snow ball fight. We built trenches, snow walls and cache of snowballs. Hours of preparation and the battle lasted exactly 3 minutes 47 seconds. (obviously we didn't time it but it was very quick) Covered in snow. Our jeans and clothes soaked with icy water. We raced inside to warm up by the crackling fire. Once dried out and warmed, I would head home.
In the days prior to cell phones, I called my mother before I left, when I arrived at CB's, when I left CB's and when I arrived back home. Each time I called to inform my mother I was safe and leaving, she would say, be careful out there, "It's as slick as snot." She said this when it snowed regardless if I was walking, riding a bike or catching a ride from someone's parents. And she continues to say it even today as I load my daughter in the car to get her to school. "Be careful, it's slick as snot out there!"
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