If we all had tickers on our foreheads of how much longer we had to live do you think it'd change the way we acted?
I do. I bet if we all knew that, you'd see a completely different society. Borderline anarchy. More so than usual. OR would having that ticker and the knowledge of our own demise cause us to make the decisions that would in turn end our lives?
'Oh my, I've got this many days to live, I better go get a convertible with my best girlfriend Louise and drive through the desert on a wild police chase only to missile ourselves straight into a ravenous explosion of death?'
Hey, I'm just asking the questions here.
It's kinda like Minority Report, I suppose, where they all knew when they were going to die because those creepy/hot bald women predicted it all. But then sometimes they were wrong? Cause Cruise missed his predicted death time by making a good decision and all the sudden he was with Zenu and Suri cooking popcorn and thinkin' up ways to off Hitler.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wanting vs. Needing
I'm not sure the difference in the two anymore. I want lots of things. I need nothing. Therefore, I now know I want nothing. Therefore, after I said that, I now want something.
To restart this post, for instance. Right. Right. Right. Wanting. To want what thou doesn't have is to need what thou needeth most. Make sense of that and I'll give ya a lollipop.
A wise man once told me at a bar that I had a trusting face. He was an old man, and sat with a crook in his back. He might have been 95 or 96. He told me I had a trusting face and I seemed honest and fair.
I told him he was right, he could trust me. I clasped him on the back as men do sometimes when they're being serious with one another and I smiled at him.
His eyes shone out from underneath an overhanging brim of a brow. The lines in his face seemed like one of those topographic maps of mountains, the wrinkles were infinite. He stank of Old Spice and the Salvation Army.
He was a good man, and I had a trusting face. He then clasped my back as well and also patted it for good measure. I had made a new friend.
I did most of the talking in this new relationship and the old man listened and gave a 'humph' or an 'uh-huh' in response to most everything.
As we both reached the end of our second or fourth whiskeys, I could sense he was growing tired.
I wasn't entirely sure if it was my conversation or his old age, but I decided to make my conversation more entertaining anyway. I began talking about women, and naked ones at that. He perked up a little for a moment, but the crook in his back grew more crooked, and his head sagged low and rested on the bar. This old crackerjack had had enough.
I told him I'd get the tab. He looked at me and tears came to his eyes.
'Don't cry, withered angel' I said.
And he didn't. We shook hands like men do, firm and steady. He oozed out of his stool and scuttled out of the bar.
I sat back down. I was content, and found myself on the verge of tears. I had made a nice new friend today.
The tab was waiting for me and I reached for my wallet.
It wasn't there. I checked both front pockets. Not there, either.
The old man took it.
'Withered angel, my ass,' I yelled as I sprang from my seat and burst out of the bar.
I got outside just in time to see the old man put the wallet into his mouth like a debit card into an ATM. He then reached up to the top of his head and dug his hands into his skin. The sound was excruciatingly literal. It could only have been made by a guy putting his wrinkled hands into the top of his head. Or some baby food.
He then pulled the yellowing flesh off of himself like a banana.
The wrinkled skin fell to the ground in a lump and there before me stood none other than Harry Potter himself, Daniel 'Fuckin' Radcliffe.
He mouthed the words 'Thanks, Snookums' to me and he--
It was at that point that I bolted awake from my nightmare in a gelatinous layer of sweat and embarrassment. What the hell was that all about.
I now realize that dream to be a metaphor for my continued financial support of the Harry Potter movie franchise. I've given far too much to those pompous, spoiled and talentless English fops, and I don't intend to do it again. Let Harry die for all I care. That little punk took my allowance.
And he can't do magic for shit. Everyone zaps his ass constantly with their lightning bolt wand flicks.
If he's the chosen one, then I'm glad I'm not.
(BTW-I didn't NEED to write this blog, but I sure did WANT to.)
To restart this post, for instance. Right. Right. Right. Wanting. To want what thou doesn't have is to need what thou needeth most. Make sense of that and I'll give ya a lollipop.
A wise man once told me at a bar that I had a trusting face. He was an old man, and sat with a crook in his back. He might have been 95 or 96. He told me I had a trusting face and I seemed honest and fair.
I told him he was right, he could trust me. I clasped him on the back as men do sometimes when they're being serious with one another and I smiled at him.
His eyes shone out from underneath an overhanging brim of a brow. The lines in his face seemed like one of those topographic maps of mountains, the wrinkles were infinite. He stank of Old Spice and the Salvation Army.
He was a good man, and I had a trusting face. He then clasped my back as well and also patted it for good measure. I had made a new friend.
I did most of the talking in this new relationship and the old man listened and gave a 'humph' or an 'uh-huh' in response to most everything.
As we both reached the end of our second or fourth whiskeys, I could sense he was growing tired.
I wasn't entirely sure if it was my conversation or his old age, but I decided to make my conversation more entertaining anyway. I began talking about women, and naked ones at that. He perked up a little for a moment, but the crook in his back grew more crooked, and his head sagged low and rested on the bar. This old crackerjack had had enough.
I told him I'd get the tab. He looked at me and tears came to his eyes.
'Don't cry, withered angel' I said.
And he didn't. We shook hands like men do, firm and steady. He oozed out of his stool and scuttled out of the bar.
I sat back down. I was content, and found myself on the verge of tears. I had made a nice new friend today.
The tab was waiting for me and I reached for my wallet.
It wasn't there. I checked both front pockets. Not there, either.
The old man took it.
'Withered angel, my ass,' I yelled as I sprang from my seat and burst out of the bar.
I got outside just in time to see the old man put the wallet into his mouth like a debit card into an ATM. He then reached up to the top of his head and dug his hands into his skin. The sound was excruciatingly literal. It could only have been made by a guy putting his wrinkled hands into the top of his head. Or some baby food.
He then pulled the yellowing flesh off of himself like a banana.
The wrinkled skin fell to the ground in a lump and there before me stood none other than Harry Potter himself, Daniel 'Fuckin' Radcliffe.
He mouthed the words 'Thanks, Snookums' to me and he--
It was at that point that I bolted awake from my nightmare in a gelatinous layer of sweat and embarrassment. What the hell was that all about.
I now realize that dream to be a metaphor for my continued financial support of the Harry Potter movie franchise. I've given far too much to those pompous, spoiled and talentless English fops, and I don't intend to do it again. Let Harry die for all I care. That little punk took my allowance.
And he can't do magic for shit. Everyone zaps his ass constantly with their lightning bolt wand flicks.
If he's the chosen one, then I'm glad I'm not.
(BTW-I didn't NEED to write this blog, but I sure did WANT to.)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Red Rover Short--on BlueFishTV
Here's another short I acted in for Chad Madden and Blue Fish TV. This is about the hardships of a Dutch Red Rover player.
(I've got a tiny 'heckler' part about three fourths of the way in)
RED ROVER Short
(I've got a tiny 'heckler' part about three fourths of the way in)
RED ROVER Short
Twitter Four Short -- BlueFish TV
Here's the first of 2 shorts I've acted in for Chad Madden and Blue Fish TV.
This short is a spoof on 24, and has Jack Bauer addicted to Twitter/blogging/facebook so much so that he lets it start interfering with his job of kicking ass.
(In this one I play an FBI agent who's upset with Jack Bauer for using twitter ALL the time.)
TWITTER-FOUR Short
This short is a spoof on 24, and has Jack Bauer addicted to Twitter/blogging/facebook so much so that he lets it start interfering with his job of kicking ass.
(In this one I play an FBI agent who's upset with Jack Bauer for using twitter ALL the time.)
TWITTER-FOUR Short
Sunday, August 23, 2009
America's Funniest Videos or 'Idiots in America'
America' Funniest Videos. The show that takes television entertainment and literally hits it in the groin with a whiffle ball bat. I watched it tonight. I used to watch it a lot when Saget did it back in the early 90's. I actually forgot that it was still on. But tonight reminded me why it IS still on. Because Americans love seeing idiots get hurt.
For instance: there's a crappy 80's clip of a guy riding an ATV (I don't know why it took 30 years to get the video clip to America's Funniest Videos, but that's besides the point) So the guy's riding an ATV and I find myself guessing how he's gonna get it. Ya know, how he's gonna get hurt. Will it be the tree branch on the right? The tip over backwards move? Nope! He turns too fast and flings himself into a pile of cow shit.
Yes! Serves him right, that idiot, riding an ATV in the 80's and sporting a mullet-perm. Perm-Mullet. A Permet.
And each clip pretty much repeats like that. First, the setup. Second, the wondering of 'how they're gonna get it?' And finally, the payoff. It's a perfectly repeatable formula because it works as quality Sunday night entertainment for the cross section of America.
They love it. Americans like to see other people get flung in cow shit. Hit in the pills. Dumped on their asses. After a long, hard, work-week, Americans like to sit on their couches and watch as their brethren get the crap kicked outta them. Simple as that.
America can't get enough.
Here's my idea to make it even more ridiculous, though--
Combine all these 'reality' shows into one. That's my idea. So we take the funny video show, put all the submitters on an island, add a rose ceremony, some mystery suitcases, throw in some horny housewives from the suburbs, toss in a runway, some iron chefs choppin' shit, a dance off every night, and do some firing.
What's the point of the show? Nothing. Just repeat the fomula. Setup. Wonder. Payoff.
An hit 'em in the junk with crazy stuff. Roses, dogs, coconuts, mystery suitcases, Trump's hair, everything. Film it, have the bachelorette hussy give 'em handies while Seacrest hosts.
It'd kill.
For instance: there's a crappy 80's clip of a guy riding an ATV (I don't know why it took 30 years to get the video clip to America's Funniest Videos, but that's besides the point) So the guy's riding an ATV and I find myself guessing how he's gonna get it. Ya know, how he's gonna get hurt. Will it be the tree branch on the right? The tip over backwards move? Nope! He turns too fast and flings himself into a pile of cow shit.
Yes! Serves him right, that idiot, riding an ATV in the 80's and sporting a mullet-perm. Perm-Mullet. A Permet.
And each clip pretty much repeats like that. First, the setup. Second, the wondering of 'how they're gonna get it?' And finally, the payoff. It's a perfectly repeatable formula because it works as quality Sunday night entertainment for the cross section of America.
They love it. Americans like to see other people get flung in cow shit. Hit in the pills. Dumped on their asses. After a long, hard, work-week, Americans like to sit on their couches and watch as their brethren get the crap kicked outta them. Simple as that.
America can't get enough.
Here's my idea to make it even more ridiculous, though--
Combine all these 'reality' shows into one. That's my idea. So we take the funny video show, put all the submitters on an island, add a rose ceremony, some mystery suitcases, throw in some horny housewives from the suburbs, toss in a runway, some iron chefs choppin' shit, a dance off every night, and do some firing.
What's the point of the show? Nothing. Just repeat the fomula. Setup. Wonder. Payoff.
An hit 'em in the junk with crazy stuff. Roses, dogs, coconuts, mystery suitcases, Trump's hair, everything. Film it, have the bachelorette hussy give 'em handies while Seacrest hosts.
It'd kill.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
We're the Same, You and I
You and I are quite the same, you know.
Except that we're not the same size or shape and I've got Starting Lineups in my kitchen and I've got my artwork on a website called my nickname then my last name and I recently killed a hundred zombies in a church. And then there's also the fact that my parent's live 3 hours away with a dog named Cheekie and I'll be going to the dentist tomorrow morning where I'll tell them how my bite guard is working for me (Fine). And then whaddabout the fact that I dream of '70 Torinos and my cat's litter box smells extra shitty right now and that I've got a brother named White Tiger and another named Chon. And also my middle name is Claus and I once hit a truck with a golf cart and I once got tipped a 5 spot for doing a great job sacking some woman's groceries. Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays.
But we're the same. Ya know why?
After all that, do you know why we're the same?
I'll tell you why, eager little beaver.
Because we both can't fuckin' wait 'till College Football season starts, that's why.
And that means we're exactly the same.
I looked it up.
(Disclaimer: If you don't give a flying noodle about the start of the College Football season then I'm sure we can find something else that will make us the same...let me think. We both can read? Ah yes, that should do it. Sameness the world over. Good eve.)
Except that we're not the same size or shape and I've got Starting Lineups in my kitchen and I've got my artwork on a website called my nickname then my last name and I recently killed a hundred zombies in a church. And then there's also the fact that my parent's live 3 hours away with a dog named Cheekie and I'll be going to the dentist tomorrow morning where I'll tell them how my bite guard is working for me (Fine). And then whaddabout the fact that I dream of '70 Torinos and my cat's litter box smells extra shitty right now and that I've got a brother named White Tiger and another named Chon. And also my middle name is Claus and I once hit a truck with a golf cart and I once got tipped a 5 spot for doing a great job sacking some woman's groceries. Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays.
But we're the same. Ya know why?
After all that, do you know why we're the same?
I'll tell you why, eager little beaver.
Because we both can't fuckin' wait 'till College Football season starts, that's why.
And that means we're exactly the same.
I looked it up.
(Disclaimer: If you don't give a flying noodle about the start of the College Football season then I'm sure we can find something else that will make us the same...let me think. We both can read? Ah yes, that should do it. Sameness the world over. Good eve.)
Monday, August 17, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Things to do in the Car
I like to do all kinds of fun shit in my car. I'm not in my car too much, but when I am, I make sure to make the best of it. It's not even a car, really. It's a bigass, gasoline guzzling clunker that I'm sure I could get some cash for but I'm not going to do that. I own it, and not having a car payment makes me feel kinda American. And things that make me feel American I'm not gonna stop doing. Like beating up dickheads and makin' kissey noises at hotties on the slotties. Ugh. I don't do that. I make kissey noises at my co-workers, though, and that's pretty American, too.
Some fun things I do in my car are as follows:
Drive. Driving is fun and I'm not sure there's any other place to do that activity than in a car. People like to 'drive' meetings by grabbing the mouse and leading us around the screen, but let's face it, they're idiots. Driving is for cars, so driving is a very fun thing I do when I'm in the car. I'm also fuckin' amazing at driving, and have never been in a wreck. Oh, one time I was in a wreck. I rear-ended some moron and then got rear-ended by an idiot seconds later. Luckily, the guy behind me didn't speak English, so I told the guy in front of me that the guy behind me hit me first and then that sent me into him. They were all confused but agreed that I was innocent. I got off scot-free and went to hell the following night. Jokes! Love em. That didn't happen.
Another fun thing to do is to not wear pants in the car. I've got a tall car and nobody can see in my car. Except for truckers. And I'm sure they like what they see cause they honk their horns a lot. Maybe it's cause I cut them off on the reg. Whatevs.
Another fun thing to do in your car is fix your person. Be it the picking of the nose, the fixing of the makeup, the straightening of the tie, the putting on of the pants, the putting on of the shirt, the pulling of the eyelashes. People love to treat their car as a personal locker room/bathroom. Lord knows I do. There's less staring in my car locker room than in the Gold's locker room, that much I'm certain.
Another fun thing to do, and maybe the second funnest in line behind the driving, is the singing. Dammit do I love singing in the car. That was not a question. I DO love singing in the car. And I suck at singing. But that doesn't matter. Cause I'm in my car locker room, without pants on and driving my ass somewhere unimportant and I'm singing. Whatta feeling. I'm actually typing this right now as I'm doing all of those. Might explain some of the type-o's cause I'm going 50 and a trucker just honked. Told ya.
Texting. Hmmm. Interesting. I'm not sure I really wanna admit that I do this in the car, but I do. I shouldn't though. So, I guess I'll stop that. Ya look stupid and everyone knows it.
And another thing I need to quit doing is passing gas. It's kinda fun when I'm by myself, but it's not good for the life of the car, apparently. And there's never any passing of the blame once someone gets inside. Just like an elevator by yourself. We all knew who it was, jackass. There' nobody else here but you.
Some fun things I do in my car are as follows:
Drive. Driving is fun and I'm not sure there's any other place to do that activity than in a car. People like to 'drive' meetings by grabbing the mouse and leading us around the screen, but let's face it, they're idiots. Driving is for cars, so driving is a very fun thing I do when I'm in the car. I'm also fuckin' amazing at driving, and have never been in a wreck. Oh, one time I was in a wreck. I rear-ended some moron and then got rear-ended by an idiot seconds later. Luckily, the guy behind me didn't speak English, so I told the guy in front of me that the guy behind me hit me first and then that sent me into him. They were all confused but agreed that I was innocent. I got off scot-free and went to hell the following night. Jokes! Love em. That didn't happen.
Another fun thing to do is to not wear pants in the car. I've got a tall car and nobody can see in my car. Except for truckers. And I'm sure they like what they see cause they honk their horns a lot. Maybe it's cause I cut them off on the reg. Whatevs.
Another fun thing to do in your car is fix your person. Be it the picking of the nose, the fixing of the makeup, the straightening of the tie, the putting on of the pants, the putting on of the shirt, the pulling of the eyelashes. People love to treat their car as a personal locker room/bathroom. Lord knows I do. There's less staring in my car locker room than in the Gold's locker room, that much I'm certain.
Another fun thing to do, and maybe the second funnest in line behind the driving, is the singing. Dammit do I love singing in the car. That was not a question. I DO love singing in the car. And I suck at singing. But that doesn't matter. Cause I'm in my car locker room, without pants on and driving my ass somewhere unimportant and I'm singing. Whatta feeling. I'm actually typing this right now as I'm doing all of those. Might explain some of the type-o's cause I'm going 50 and a trucker just honked. Told ya.
Texting. Hmmm. Interesting. I'm not sure I really wanna admit that I do this in the car, but I do. I shouldn't though. So, I guess I'll stop that. Ya look stupid and everyone knows it.
And another thing I need to quit doing is passing gas. It's kinda fun when I'm by myself, but it's not good for the life of the car, apparently. And there's never any passing of the blame once someone gets inside. Just like an elevator by yourself. We all knew who it was, jackass. There' nobody else here but you.
Rules for Staring
I'm going to attempt to break down some simple rules for staring.
Here goes nothing.
Rule #1
Don't do it.
Rule #2
If you do it, don't stop doing it.
Staring is like going out for sushi. Just get the fuckin' Rainbow roll and the Tuna slices and the Dragon roll and the Sapporo and the Saki and the Edamame and the Miso and the Fried Banana with ice cream and then tip too much. Really do it up right if you're gonna do it.
Staring is also as filling/rewarding as sushi is. Which is not at all. I've stared lots. It's never gotten me anywhere. Every time I eat sushi I get McDonald's on the way home after. Never fails.
Here goes nothing.
Rule #1
Don't do it.
Rule #2
If you do it, don't stop doing it.
Staring is like going out for sushi. Just get the fuckin' Rainbow roll and the Tuna slices and the Dragon roll and the Sapporo and the Saki and the Edamame and the Miso and the Fried Banana with ice cream and then tip too much. Really do it up right if you're gonna do it.
Staring is also as filling/rewarding as sushi is. Which is not at all. I've stared lots. It's never gotten me anywhere. Every time I eat sushi I get McDonald's on the way home after. Never fails.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
'The' is the new Re-Brand
Pizza Hut and Radio Shack no longer like their names. They're both asking us to stop calling them the names we've called them for years and to call them a version of their old names instead.
They're asking us to lose the first word in their two word names and in that vast empty space we're supposed to sub in the word 'The.'
The Hut.
The Shack.
Who's the mastermind behind this change? I heard it was Leonard Moron, head of Moron Advertising on First and Jefferson. He sat down Pizza Hut and Radio Shack and said the following (Somehow I've got the transcript from that meeting. Fuckin' crazy, I know. Here it is) :
'Listen...guys. We've worked this up every which way ya CAN work this up. Sleepless nights. Thousands of logos, taglines. Coffee breaks. Think breaks. Pencil breaks. But we've solved it. What I'm about to tell you will change your lives, and in turn, change ours.
What we at Moron Ad propose is the ol' switcheroo. Take out one word, replace it with another word. This switcheroo will make all the difference, though. The word we've chosen to sub into both of your names is actually the same word.
Two birds, one stone.
This word is a fairly common word, in fact I've said it multiple times already.
I'm talking, of course, about the word 'THE.'
So, Pizza Hut: You'll now be 'THE Hut.' And Radio Shack: You're 'THE Shack.' BOOM. Huhh? Huh? (straightens tie, hands to hips, eye contact, high fives his Moron Ad underlings, waits for client reaction)
Pizza Hut and Radio Shack look at one another. They look at Leonard. They look back one another. Silence in the room.
Smiles slowly creep onto their faces.
They both stand up, shake hands with the head of Moron Ad, and go along on their merry ways, happy to have their branding problems all solved by Leonard Moron and the kind family of Morons at Moron Ad.
Ya think it will make a difference, guys? Pizza Hut? Well, I can't hate on them too much. It ain't great but it's better than a needle to the eye. That doesn't mean I've had it in the last 5 years, cause I honestly don't think I have. I'm sure the deep dish is still deep and the wings still aren't Cha Cha's in Sarasota.
But Radio Shack? If I ever need batteries or a remote controlled june-bug, I'd STILL check Best Buy first.
'The' or no 'The'. You're still both dumps.
That's it.
They're asking us to lose the first word in their two word names and in that vast empty space we're supposed to sub in the word 'The.'
The Hut.
The Shack.
Who's the mastermind behind this change? I heard it was Leonard Moron, head of Moron Advertising on First and Jefferson. He sat down Pizza Hut and Radio Shack and said the following (Somehow I've got the transcript from that meeting. Fuckin' crazy, I know. Here it is) :
'Listen...guys. We've worked this up every which way ya CAN work this up. Sleepless nights. Thousands of logos, taglines. Coffee breaks. Think breaks. Pencil breaks. But we've solved it. What I'm about to tell you will change your lives, and in turn, change ours.
What we at Moron Ad propose is the ol' switcheroo. Take out one word, replace it with another word. This switcheroo will make all the difference, though. The word we've chosen to sub into both of your names is actually the same word.
Two birds, one stone.
This word is a fairly common word, in fact I've said it multiple times already.
I'm talking, of course, about the word 'THE.'
So, Pizza Hut: You'll now be 'THE Hut.' And Radio Shack: You're 'THE Shack.' BOOM. Huhh? Huh? (straightens tie, hands to hips, eye contact, high fives his Moron Ad underlings, waits for client reaction)
Pizza Hut and Radio Shack look at one another. They look at Leonard. They look back one another. Silence in the room.
Smiles slowly creep onto their faces.
They both stand up, shake hands with the head of Moron Ad, and go along on their merry ways, happy to have their branding problems all solved by Leonard Moron and the kind family of Morons at Moron Ad.
Ya think it will make a difference, guys? Pizza Hut? Well, I can't hate on them too much. It ain't great but it's better than a needle to the eye. That doesn't mean I've had it in the last 5 years, cause I honestly don't think I have. I'm sure the deep dish is still deep and the wings still aren't Cha Cha's in Sarasota.
But Radio Shack? If I ever need batteries or a remote controlled june-bug, I'd STILL check Best Buy first.
'The' or no 'The'. You're still both dumps.
That's it.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
My Dad
I played guns a lot when I was a kid. I'm sure there's tons of folks out there that can all agree that 'playing guns' was a pretty damn fun childhood game. Having a gun that looked real was ideal. Black plastic Beretta. Shiny revolver.
Ya run around, ya hide and then ya shoot each other by making 'pow' and 'bang' sounds with your mouth. I'm a bad guy, you're a good guy.
Cops & robbers. Boys will be boys.
Now, when I was a kid, I also ran on my heels. I don't know why. And I'm not sure anyone else did, either. I just didn't spring off of my toes at all. And I was a chubber. Being chubby and running on my heels were two minor discrepencies that led me to being pretty bad at 'playing guns.' You had to run a lot in guns. I ran slow and giggled/jiggled a lot. I still run slow and giggle/jiggle a lot. Maybe with slightly less heel. But quite possibly the same amount of giggle/jiggle.
This is going somewhere, I swear.
One hotass day back in the late 80's, the friends on the Lullwater cul-de-sac we lived on were all playing guns in a massive field called Shadowbend Park in The Woodlands, Texas. Ask anyone who grew up in The Woodlands. This park had it all. Hills for jumping on your bike. A big cement ditch to ride through. Sweet places to hide. Some 'make-out' spots that I swore I would use when I was older. I never used them. Never say never, I 'spose.
Wellp, we loved playing guns at Shadowbend.
So here we played. And my Dad would come with us sometimes and shoot hoops at the basketball court there with some other of the Dads. Dads like to shoot hoops. Kids like to play guns. All was right in the world.
I would have never known it then (and still smile when I think about it now) but this was the day my Dad was to become my Hero.
I remember wadddling out into the middle of the field. Beretta in hand. Sun blazing. A white streak of hair flew past me and disappeared into the woods without even a rustle of leaves. Like an Olympic diver into into the pool. There goes my older brother, I thought. Good luck getting him. Kid could fly.
Like I said, this field was massive. Trees lined every side. The other kids ran away from me, as well. I caught glimpses of their T&C Surf Company shirts or Yaga shorts as they disappeared into the brush.
I decided to go for one of the kids that I actually might have a chance at shooting, so I scurried on. In the dead center of the field. Gun outstretched. 'Bang, Bang' I exhaled at nobody in particulars, as they were all too far away to get a good shot off.
As I 'made haste' I saw that the other kids were kinda up out of their hiding spots and looking at me. This was not normal, I thought. It looked like they were looking at something behind me.
Eric, my older brother (the White Tiger), yelled to me from his hiding spot.
'Run, Justin! WATCH OUT!!!'
I had no idea what was happening until he was almost on top of me.
From behind me, a man with an unbuttoned flannel shirt, wife beater tank top, long greasy brown hair and jean shorts charged.
This guy was yelling at me. REALLY yelling at ME.
I heeled it as fast as I could. Which was probably just shy of a motorized wheelchair, I believe.
I screamed as he tackled me face first into the ground. Dirt filled my mouth and rocks scraped my face. We skidded to a halt. Time slowed to a crawl.
His hand immediately grabbed for my gun, which I held in my right hand.
His breath was hot on the side of my face and it reeked of what I now know to have been whiskey. He must have weighed two hundred pounds and he was crushing me.
He ripped the gun from my hand and put it to my head.
I tried to get up but couldn't. He was too strong.
He mashed the nozzle to my head and began clicking the gun's trigger. I heard it snap once. Then twice. Then over and over again. He growled the following words a half inch from my ear.
'Bang. Bang. You're dead baaaannng you're dead.'
I began to cry. My face mashed into the ground and eyes full of tears. I cried.
The next thing I heard was quite possibly the most memorable sound from my childhood.
'HEY! GET OFF MY SON.'
It was my Dad.
I blinked open my mud-caked eyes.
There he was. Basketball in hand. About 50 yards away and closing fast. But this Dad wasn't really like my normal Dad. This was a pissed version of my Dad. And all of the sudden I knew the guy on top of me was about to get his ass kicked.
The man's weight shifted as he shoved me into the ground and took to his feet. He knew he was in trouble.
A second later a basketball flew into his chest. HARD. Like it was shot out of a fuckin' cannon HARD. The guy's wind got knocked from his lungs and he stumbled backwards, about to fall. My Dad closed in for a closer shot at him.
Just then another man burst onto the scene, runs up to the drunken Eddie Vedder look alike, slings him over his shoulder and jets off. In one move. Like it was choreographed.
We never saw him again.
My friends rushed up to me.
My Dad gets to me and asks if I was alright. I said yea.
And that was that.
I'll never forget that day at Shadowbend.
And I'll never let my Dad forget either, even though he remembers it a bit differently than me, I think.
I wanna say that I told him I loved him after he saved me that day. Truth is, I can't remember if I did or not. Having a fake gun to your head and a drunk on your back when you're 7 years old will make ya forget certain things, I guess.
But if I didn't tell him then, I've told him a million times since then.
And another time won't hurt either.
Love ya, Big D.
Ya run around, ya hide and then ya shoot each other by making 'pow' and 'bang' sounds with your mouth. I'm a bad guy, you're a good guy.
Cops & robbers. Boys will be boys.
Now, when I was a kid, I also ran on my heels. I don't know why. And I'm not sure anyone else did, either. I just didn't spring off of my toes at all. And I was a chubber. Being chubby and running on my heels were two minor discrepencies that led me to being pretty bad at 'playing guns.' You had to run a lot in guns. I ran slow and giggled/jiggled a lot. I still run slow and giggle/jiggle a lot. Maybe with slightly less heel. But quite possibly the same amount of giggle/jiggle.
This is going somewhere, I swear.
One hotass day back in the late 80's, the friends on the Lullwater cul-de-sac we lived on were all playing guns in a massive field called Shadowbend Park in The Woodlands, Texas. Ask anyone who grew up in The Woodlands. This park had it all. Hills for jumping on your bike. A big cement ditch to ride through. Sweet places to hide. Some 'make-out' spots that I swore I would use when I was older. I never used them. Never say never, I 'spose.
Wellp, we loved playing guns at Shadowbend.
So here we played. And my Dad would come with us sometimes and shoot hoops at the basketball court there with some other of the Dads. Dads like to shoot hoops. Kids like to play guns. All was right in the world.
I would have never known it then (and still smile when I think about it now) but this was the day my Dad was to become my Hero.
I remember wadddling out into the middle of the field. Beretta in hand. Sun blazing. A white streak of hair flew past me and disappeared into the woods without even a rustle of leaves. Like an Olympic diver into into the pool. There goes my older brother, I thought. Good luck getting him. Kid could fly.
Like I said, this field was massive. Trees lined every side. The other kids ran away from me, as well. I caught glimpses of their T&C Surf Company shirts or Yaga shorts as they disappeared into the brush.
I decided to go for one of the kids that I actually might have a chance at shooting, so I scurried on. In the dead center of the field. Gun outstretched. 'Bang, Bang' I exhaled at nobody in particulars, as they were all too far away to get a good shot off.
As I 'made haste' I saw that the other kids were kinda up out of their hiding spots and looking at me. This was not normal, I thought. It looked like they were looking at something behind me.
Eric, my older brother (the White Tiger), yelled to me from his hiding spot.
'Run, Justin! WATCH OUT!!!'
I had no idea what was happening until he was almost on top of me.
From behind me, a man with an unbuttoned flannel shirt, wife beater tank top, long greasy brown hair and jean shorts charged.
This guy was yelling at me. REALLY yelling at ME.
I heeled it as fast as I could. Which was probably just shy of a motorized wheelchair, I believe.
I screamed as he tackled me face first into the ground. Dirt filled my mouth and rocks scraped my face. We skidded to a halt. Time slowed to a crawl.
His hand immediately grabbed for my gun, which I held in my right hand.
His breath was hot on the side of my face and it reeked of what I now know to have been whiskey. He must have weighed two hundred pounds and he was crushing me.
He ripped the gun from my hand and put it to my head.
I tried to get up but couldn't. He was too strong.
He mashed the nozzle to my head and began clicking the gun's trigger. I heard it snap once. Then twice. Then over and over again. He growled the following words a half inch from my ear.
'Bang. Bang. You're dead baaaannng you're dead.'
I began to cry. My face mashed into the ground and eyes full of tears. I cried.
The next thing I heard was quite possibly the most memorable sound from my childhood.
'HEY! GET OFF MY SON.'
It was my Dad.
I blinked open my mud-caked eyes.
There he was. Basketball in hand. About 50 yards away and closing fast. But this Dad wasn't really like my normal Dad. This was a pissed version of my Dad. And all of the sudden I knew the guy on top of me was about to get his ass kicked.
The man's weight shifted as he shoved me into the ground and took to his feet. He knew he was in trouble.
A second later a basketball flew into his chest. HARD. Like it was shot out of a fuckin' cannon HARD. The guy's wind got knocked from his lungs and he stumbled backwards, about to fall. My Dad closed in for a closer shot at him.
Just then another man burst onto the scene, runs up to the drunken Eddie Vedder look alike, slings him over his shoulder and jets off. In one move. Like it was choreographed.
We never saw him again.
My friends rushed up to me.
My Dad gets to me and asks if I was alright. I said yea.
And that was that.
I'll never forget that day at Shadowbend.
And I'll never let my Dad forget either, even though he remembers it a bit differently than me, I think.
I wanna say that I told him I loved him after he saved me that day. Truth is, I can't remember if I did or not. Having a fake gun to your head and a drunk on your back when you're 7 years old will make ya forget certain things, I guess.
But if I didn't tell him then, I've told him a million times since then.
And another time won't hurt either.
Love ya, Big D.
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