The Confusion 'Principal' - Humorous True Story

From the first day that I was in Mrs. Hibbett's English class, she mispronounced my name.  She insisted that I should be called 'L-Jon' instead of 'L-Gun', the way my family pronounced my name.  I took it as an insult but even still if she insisted on calling me 'L-Jon', I could tolerate it for a while.  I guess that I thought that maybe eventually she would get it right.  Who was I to correct an English teacher on how to pronounce something?  Except it irked me.  It was my name and as far as I could tell she handled everyone else's name just as they pronounced it.  Why was she singling me out as the only student who was mispronouncing a first name?

She had ignored the first couple of times when I had attempted to correct her; she persisted calling me L-Jon.  The more I tolerated it the longer it would linger as a continuing irritation.

To that point in life I was a rather quiet, generally shy person.  I was a listener more so than a talker and a watcher more so than a doer.  I tried to never make trouble for myself or anyone else.  Then, one day all of that changed.

I don't know why it happened as it did or even what happened to trigger it.  Maybe it was that my voice had begun to deepen and hair had begun to replace the fuzz of youth in my private places. I might have even got up on the proverbial wrong side of the bed.  Sin of all sins, I ignored Mrs. Hibbett calling someone named 'L-Jon' to the front of the class to do board work. It was a silent protest and despite her repeating the request, I was sitting there staring into space. I  completely ignored her while trying not to notice that every eye in the classroom was suddenly trained upon me.

She got up from her desk, and walked over to my side of the room. We were seated alphabetically, of course. So I was pretty-much at the back of the room and furthest from the door as my last name started with a 'W'.  All the other tail-enders of the arbitrary alphabetical segregation were seated in the same ghetto of surnames around me. Mrs. Hibbett walked right up to my desk. She angrily planted her high heels into  the resilient tile floor and reiterated that she wanted someone named 'L-Jon' to do board work.

"Excuse me but are you talking to me?"

"Who else would I be talking to, 'L-Jon'?"

"Oh, that's the problem.  My name is pronounced 'L-Gun' not 'L-Jon'."

"It should be pronounced 'L-Jon'," she insisted.

"That is how you choose to pronounce it.  It is my name and I can pronounce it any way I damned-well want to!"

Of course, she sent me to the office.  I was sitting in the outer office awaiting a conference with either Mr. Smith the assistant principal or Mr. Irvine as the latter walked by and said, "Bill, what brings you down here?"

"Mrs. Hibbett sent me to see you."

"Come in, then."

I got up and followed him into his office, closing the door behind me.

"Have a seat," Mr. Irvine said as he offered me a jawbreaker from a jar that he kept on his desk.  "Okay tell me the story."

"Mrs. Hibbett has been mispronouncing my name ever since the first day I reported to her class."

"How do ya mispronounce Bill?"

"Well, that's just it.  My name is Elgon."

"It is?"

"Yes sir.  I think you got Bill from my last name being first on my transcript from military school."

"Oh, oh yeah, that must be how that happened.  Well, be that as it may, it is your name.  I suppose you could pronounce it 'Mike' if you wanted to."

"Well, that is sort of what I told her."

"That is silly.  Why would she send you down here over something like that?"

"It was probably the way I expressed it."

"What exactly did you say?"

"I told her I could pronounce my name any way I damned-well wanted to."

"Oh, well, yes that would matter," he said.  "That is over the top.  It is not good to swear at a teacher, especially in front of the entire class.  You disrespected her and undermined her authority."

"I know that.  I usually don't swear.  I didn't intend to undermine her authority it is just that she belligerently counters everything I say to her in class, always quick with a sarcastic come back.  I have been taking it all along.  It just made me very mad that she refuses to say my name the way I want it to be pronounced."

"Well, she is a very good teacher.  It is just that sometimes her style does not agree with certain people.  Are you learning from her?"

"Yes, I am learning.  It is just the sarcasm that bothers me and her refusal to pronounce my name the way that I prefer."

"Well, I want you to go back to class and apologize to her in front of everyone for swearing and being disrespectful.  As for the name thing, well, I have to agree with you on that one.  I'll have a talk with her about it."

He hurriedly wrote out a hall pass and told me to return to class and refrain from using harsh language in the future.

When I returned to Mrs. Hibbett's classroom, every eye was again trained upon me.

"Well?" she asked.

"Mr. Irvine said that I am to apologize to you for the language I used and for being disrespectful and undermining your authority."

"And..."

"I'm sorry for that and it won't happen again."

"That's good."

"But he agrees with me that it is my name and I can expect it to be pronounced any way I want it to."

I could see her face redden. Whether it was from embarrassment or rage I was not sure.

"Well from now on I will call you Mr. Williams.  That is how you pronounce your last name, isn't it?"

"Yes ma'am."

I was grateful that at that moment the bell rang.  Unfortunately, she wanted me to stay after class for a bit.

When everyone left the room, she closed the door.

"What is your problem with me?  Really?"

"It is just that you refuse to pronounce my name the way I was used to and when I corrected you on it you continually ignored me.  Other than that I don't like being put down all the time."

"Put down?"

"Your sarcasm bothers me.  If I said to you what you say to me in class I would live in the office."

"I see.  Well, I was unaware that you had a problem with any of that..."

"Look, if you don't mean anything by it, I guess that's okay.  I was not in the mood for any of it today, that's all.  I am really very sorry that I swore at you.  I won't do it again."

"Go on to your next class."

Undersplaining - Humorous

My first semester at the University of Texas at Austin, I enrolled in a required macroeconomics course. I had been told that it was an easy 'A'. I was ambivalent about those courses that others promised were GPA inflator subjects. I needed the grades, but I also felt that I was wasting my money having to take classes that really taught me nothing. The guy I sat next to in that class, James, became my roommate during the ensuing semester. He wanted to split costs on an apartment, and so did I. It made economic sense to each of us. So, I figure that is something that I got out of the macroeconomics course.

James was a native Texan, born in Austin but raised in Houston. He had been a middle linebacker for his high school football team. Even though he was a little bit on the scrawny side, I never doubted his story. James could be a madman at times, passionate on a few things, focused and unwaveringly opinionated on others. In any debate, he had a wild look in his eye, something that might frighten the faint at heart causing them to relent in their arguments until James left the room. To me, his look was that of a religious zealot or perhaps a mass murderer. Yes, the more I think about it, Charles Manson has the same look. Unlike Manson, James was generally harmless.

Anyway, our friendship began in that macroeconomics course. He and I used to take turns asking questions of the professor. The point was to present some broad topic with a general inquiry for which there was either no real answer or a sort of answer that lent itself to the professor's propensity to pontificate. James told me the guy could be manipulated. "Ask him something fringe or controversial, and he will waste all the class time trying to explain something that he has no clue about."

James would do homework for his other classes while the professor rambled on about nothing important or even remotely relevant. It was only toward the end of the class that the professor would reel in his far-flung conclusions, tracking back on to subject just before the bell rang.

Sometimes I did other things in that class, especially when I had an impending exam. But usually I listened and tried to figure out what the professor was talking about. It occurred to me that he actually was basically still on subject until, at times, he fancifully flew off onto this or that tangent, digressing upon this or that almost unrelated subtopic. I determined he really was attempting to answer the question that was posed. When I mentioned this to James, he scoffed. He reasserted what was his fervent belief: "The man is an imbecile. He got his credentials by accident or through mail order. Anyway, he's an economist. Economists are like the world's biggest bullshit artists."

Emperors and kings of old used to have court astrologers to advise them as to the proper courses for their decisions. In modern times, where money matters most and all money is based on a fiduciary system, the shaman of preference is an economist whose job is to spread out the tarot cards, read the tea leaves, check the bumps on back of the First Lady's head, count the number of times that the Presidential pooch had to go outdoors for a tinkle during the course of a day and then explain the mysterious forces of the world's economy. James was correct about one thing, regardless the source of the bullshit, bullshit is still and always will be bullshit!

The macroeconomics professor had no idea how to answer some, if not most, of the questions that James and I were asking him. Yet, he tackled the challenge with as much hubris and vigor as any so called 'expert' would. As I observed what he was doing and listened to what he was saying, he perhaps had numbed my mind to the point that he eventually started making sense. Alternatively, he had perhaps stumbled, stammered and him-hawed but only to a point. Then suddenly, it was as if a light had illuminated from the heavens above, and shone down, penetrating the roof and several floors of the business building to light his way out of his self-excavated pit. Immediately, he became succinct and purposeful. The transition was astonishing to behold.

There was no word that I knew of that could encompass that entire process I observed, so I made up one. It was obvious to me that in the course of his trying to answer a question he was beginning to understand something even while he was explaining it, hence the term 'undersplaining'.

For George And Abe - Humorous

When I was very young there were two Presidential birthdays observed in February. Neither of them was a school holiday. I don't recall, but I think banks and the post office were closed in observance of both. I guess that for such a short month, two legal holidays were too much. Thank God there was no official observance of Groundhog Day or St., Valentine's Day. Other than the passing reference to whether Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow, I tried to ignore Groundhog Day.

Observing St. Valentine's Day seemed kind of silly too. There was the annual, traditional and almost mandatory exchange of valentines with all the members of the opposite sex. Not only did you give them to the prettiest girls - those that would never otherwise give you the time of day, but also you had to include all those that you feared might actually believe that you had some cloistered amorous intentions. I suppose in these politically correct times, it may have not occurred to anyone that this practice probably violates some obscure but federally-mandated something-or-the-other.

Don't laugh. That might happen.

It usually takes Congress to create something utterly ridiculous. A case in point may well be Presidents' Day.

You may have noticed on the calendar that Abe Lincoln and George Washington's real, honest and true birthdays are ten days apart. It is kind of obvious; enough so that even Congress may have noticed it. The irony is that the collective body of elected officials decided to legislate a lie into a holiday to fall on a Monday between the twelveth and the twenty-second of February. It was to serve as a day to celebrate both birthdays of the past presidents. Oh, but it was also intended to celebrate the birthday of every president, even the not so great and forgettable ones. So, not only did a Congressional act split the respect for two men reputed to be truthful and honest men well beyond the norm, but it also diluted the holiday to the point of near meaninglessness.

As legislation of the sort goes, it is not surprising. The desire was to eliminate as many holidays that interrupt the middle of the week to officially celebrate them on a Monday, creating a three-day-weekend for those who do not work on weekends.

I believe this was around the same time that my state of birth, Ohio, decided to adopt Daylight Savings Time. My mother accused politicians of passing a law that allowed golfers more time on the links.

Who knows? Maybe she was right.

Mom also commented on the new law creating Presidents' Day. She said that if George and Abe were still alive to know about it, they would probably react the same way that my daughter Amanda might, if I told her that since her birthday is on the nineteenth of December, and so close to Christmas, that we are just going to pick a day between the two and celebrate that instead.

I could be wrong but, as I recall, in the years that followed the tragic assassination in 1963, there was some discussion about making John F. Kennedy's birthday a national holiday and, as should come as little surprise, Congress could not seem to agree on doing that. They had already replaced the venerable Benjamin Franklin's likeness on the fifty cent piece to create the Kennedy Half Dollar. It was considered redundant, perhaps since Franklin's image already adorned the hundred dollar bill.

Oh, and by the way, Franklin was never a President, so please do not refer to American currency as 'Dead Presidents'.Not true.

Anyway, I think the creation of a combined celebration of the birthdays of Washington and Lincoln sort of served to quell all the emotionally driven and politically controversial good intentions. In theory, over time there would be enough Presidents with diverse birthdays on the calendar that every day would eventually be some President's Birthday. So maybe Congress did us a favor, even if they didn't realize it. Three or four hundred years from now, when every day of the year will have been some President's birthday, there will still be postal service and banking underway.

President's Day has emerged to become a simple way to honor, remember and basically have excuse for the rest of the year to pretty much ignore the times of the greatest, along with the most obscure, of all the Presidents. Combine everything into one grand celebration that could be remembered in a tribute to the office itself, not so much the individuals that have served. There is a sort of egalitarian logic about that, and it strikes me as being a particularly American sort of thing to do.

At any rate, it was a fairly intelligent, and therefore, probably unintended, after thought, pursuant to the actual legislation. I was not paying much attention at the time, but I know that at the outset the holiday was only intended to honor the two patron demigods of American myth and legend: George that could never tell a lie and good ol' Honest Abe. Honoring truthful and honest men who served in the highest office of the land seems like a very admirable thing to me. But somehow, everyone else got lumped into the mix sometime afterwards, to ride on the coattails of the great in a celebration of honor as well as mediocrity in public service. .

When Congress was debating the matter, it wasn't like the creation of the holiday really needed a whole lot of discussion, but just that debating is one of the things that Congress seems intent on doing. They are pretty good at it, since they have a lot of practice.

During the period of discussion about the new holiday, someone asked my mother what she thought they were going to call the combined holiday. Her reply was classic, and clearly it made me laugh, because it was just as ridiculous as the whole concept of combining the two birthdays into one. Then and ever after, February not only has been unique for having merely 28 or sometimes 29 days. It has been forever associated in my mind with everything else that is kind of off-center and maybe even sideways about our country.

By the way, my mom's suggestion on naming the new holiday was, what else?  'Abe Birthington's Washday'.

Mort Du Jour - Poem

Separation none's fault
Vault across they came
Same unable to assist
Kissed in ices packed

Sacked, struggled sign
Devine mystery entangled
Strangled 'til expired
Wired for certain

Curtain drawn closed
Proposed nothing touch
Much potential, such a lie
Cry more eyes must tear

Fear is second handed
Remanded to custody
Free no more to care
Wear history as a face

Place chance refuse
Reuse bodies to wear
Scare those who live
Forgive my desperation

A Change In The Weather

The most recent of my experiences has changed the way I see the world. These devastating storms that hammered us for a few weeks in 2004 made me consider what is truly important in my life.

It should come as no surprise. My family matters most. Unequivocally, I could not have made it through the past couple of months without my kids. Then again, they were the only reason I wanted to make it through the past couple of months, anyway. It is funny how that works out.

I would like the list some of the things I learned:

1. Somehow, my daughters know how to play all sorts of card games that I have never heard of. After the past couple of months, I now know how to play some of them as well. Despite how large a pain in the butt it may have seemed taking them to this and that Girl Scout thing over the years, they learned a lot of useful things from being involved with others and that organization. Not only did they learn invaluable socialization skills, but they also learned a few card games. Enduring the recent power outages in the wake of violent storms would be much less bearable without those candlelight card games.

2. For the sake of one's nerves, if not safety, please, always evacuate when the authorities tell you to. Despite curiosity, lunacy or whatever, experiencing a category three hurricane at landfall is something best left to those silly enough to do it in front of a TV news camera. At least they are getting paid to be incredibly stupid.

3. Freedoms can be taken away in an instant, by fate and/or natural circumstance. Suspended liberty can also linger as an emergency situation for several days afterwards, in the interest of the public good. At my age, having anyone tell me when I HAVE to do anything is at the least irritating. I am not certain that I like the fact that the elected officials in my county can impose an arbitrary curfew, but I do like the fact that the police charged to enforce the times of suspended freedoms seem very interested in relinquishing the power as soon as the emergency has passed. Maybe that is how our country really is different from some other places in the world. The police officers are us and the authority is used only when it is necessary for them to protect us from ourselves. They watch out for whatever there is in human nature that makes people act like idiots.

4. The power of nature trumps everything. No one is impervious. I think storms are a little, not-so-friendly reminder that everyone is equal. There is no immunity. You are not bullet-proof. A storm does not give preference or deference to wealth, creed or ethnicity. It doesn't care whether you eat white bread or whole wheat. It doesn't want to know whether your belly button is an 'innie' or an 'outtie'. Your Atkin's diet doesn't matter. How great you were playing baseball in high school is immaterial. Nature doesn't mind removing a few shingles from your roof either, if that is what it takes to get your attention. The wrath of the elements will humble you into admitting that every person is a puny subject cowering in a corner, hunkering down and hoping for the best until the unleashed fury has passed.

5. Appreciation for electricity, more than almost anything else in life except for my kids, was underscored and highlighted. Having hot water to take a shower because there is electricity is a marvelous thing. It's funny though, I realize now why they call electricity 'power'. Having the 'power' is much preferable to having 'no power'.  However, it is always nice when someone that has 'power' offers to share some of it with you, especially when you don't have any. By the way, Air-conditioning is the greatest invention ever! Trust me on that one.

6. The strangest and most personally uplifting thing I have witnessed over the past couple of months is that emergencies, like this series of storms that my state has suffered, brings out the best in some if not most people. I don't know if it is an American thing or just a human thing - or even if any of that matters. I am relatively certain that it is part of the overall equalizing factor of an event or series of events of the magnitude of a disaster Floridians have sustained. When we are reminded how insignificant each of us is before the awesome display of the forces of nature, we tend to have a sense of community and become nicer to one another. When was the last time you volunteered to help a neighbor trim some palm fronds? - Or remove a tree that had fallen in his or her yard? When was the last time you stopped to ask your neighbor if he or she wanted a ride to get a few bags of ice? It has happened here lately and almost everyday!

These disastrous, violent storms, I would not wish on anyone. It is not that I feel blessed or even particularly singled out to have survived. All the same, I am grateful to be alive. It is only that I noticed a few things that reaffirmed my faith that somehow we will all get through even the hardest of times. It is not because we can or must, but because we are all together in this strange and sometimes twisted little world. Sometimes, it takes a disaster to get our attention and remind us that this is our unique sandbox. This is the only place we have to play. We need to behave ourselves and share, regardless how immature we are. What a pity it is that it takes disasters to bring the 'human' out of our common 'humanity'. The shame is that most of us aren't a little more human to one another all the time. We wait until there is a tragedy become who we really are, members of the same tribe.

Blame It On Kimchee

When I was attending language school, I was so immersed in Chinese culture that it barely registered that any other Asian culture existed. Several weeks into the total immersion method of acquiring a language along with some of the culture, my friend Jeff suggested we go out for some dinner. Jeff was studying Korean language and culture. He said that he knew a place near Fort Ord, on the north side of Monterey that served excellent, authentic Korean food. I had eaten Chinese food, and had eaten Japanese Sushi, but at that point, I had never sampled anything Korean or anything that was from any other Asian culture.

Kimchee is a staple of the Korean diet. In fact, every meal seems to involve kimchee and rice. Some of the guys at school had already warned me about the potency of kimchee, but they hastened to say how good it was. So, I was looking forward to trying it.

I had never paid any attention to Korean culture at all. I was studying Chinese and had more than enough to learn about their 4000 year history and culture. To that point, it had always seems to me that Korea was of lesser interest as it was a relatively smaller country than China, had much fewer people and it did not have the extensive history and culture that China boasted.

I accepted the invitation because I had heard that Korean food was pretty damned tasty, if a bit on the hot side. I liked spicy food.

We drove to a alley on the north side of town, and my friend parked his car. We walked for five minutes down a series of streets and then finally turning down one alley and then another until we arrived at a place adorned with a sign bearing only Korean writing. Once we were inside, I realized that if three or even four couples came in at one time the place would have a line. As it was, we were the only ones there, but it was early in the evening. My friend assured me that he had been there when there was a line of people patiently waiting to be served.

My friend spoke to the owners in broken Korean, but as I did not understand any Korean, I was fairly impressed. At the time, I was about ten weeks into learning Chinese. I had already tried and failed to carry on a conversation with a native speaker. I was certain that if I were in a Chinese restaurant, I would not be unable to order a meal. What my friend was doing in Korean was beyond what I could do in the language that I was learning.

The waitress brought out bowls of rice and several small dishes bearing different types of kimchee. Apparently, my friend knew the Korean names of each of the varieties of kimchee that we were served. He invited me to sample each, then explained to me how each was made.

There are over a hundred different types of kimchee. That night, I sampled but a few. Kimchee is usually made from Chinese cabbage, rutabagas, cucumbers, onions, or peppers - just about any raw sliced vegetable. There are some types of kimchee made from sliced watermellon rind. Often kimchee is made of a combination of vegetables. It is mixed together, wilted in rocksalt for a few days, then rinsed, drained and mixed with a several other ingredients, depending on the season. The most common varieties are winter kimchee. These are made with ground red pepper, minced garlic, MSG, and rice powder. After initial preparation, the contents are stuffed into a large jar or other container, sealed and either refrigerated or, more traditionally, burried in the ground until use. 

As fascinated as I was with the background, I rapidly acquired a taste for kimchee. In fact, I ate a lot of kimchee that evening. I was fearless, despite Jeff's admonitions about what was in it and dire predictions of later intenstinal discomfort. After I consumed several fairly small bowls of kimchee along with rice, I chased it down with cold diet soda. I did not realize that was a dangerous combination. I had assembled the components of a small nuclear reactor in my belly.

When we left the restaurant, I was full. An hour later, I was hungry again, as has always seemed to be the case with a westerner eating Asian food from any culture. I had an important examination on Tuesday. I needed to study for most of the weekend. So, I excused myself to my room where I stayed up for most of the evening and well into the wee hours of the next morning. Then, I went to sleep.

Late Saturday morning, I went to the dorm's common restroom for my shower. While I was shaving afterwards, Jeff entered and asked if I was feeling okay.

"I'm fine. Why?"

"It is just that usually kimchee gives you the fiery Hershey squirts the first time because of all the roughage and fermented raw vegetables and red pepers."

"Well, I grew up on a farm. I have eaten vegetables all of my life. Granted, the hot pepper, garlic and whatever else you said was mixed with kimchee is probably something I have never had before, but I feel fine.

Jeff shook his head in disbelief. "You ate enough kimchee to be in misery by now."

"Maybe I am immune."

Jeff smiled, "Yeah, well maybe it hasn't hit you yet."

* * * *

Chris, my roommate, was infatuated with Demi Moore. He wanted to go see her latest movie. As I would never decline the opportunity to see a pretty face in a movie, I decided to tag along. The movie was "Blame It On Rio". Despite the stellar cast of accomplished actors and actresses, the movie, in my unprofessional estimation, sucked. It might be due to the severe cramps I started to experience halfway through the film.

I am the sort of person who will stay to the end of a crappy movie. Having paid to view something, I will be there for the duration, anticipating some last minute redemption that never seems to arrive. From my experience, if the first ten minutes of a movie are bad, the rest will be as well.

I watched all of it, fighting back the cramps until the very end. When the credits started to roll, I was off like a streak to find the restroom, as I was in urgent need.

For God knows what reason, the restrooms in that theater were on the first balcony. Chris needed to take a leak so he was right behind me as we ascended the steps, taking two at a time to reach the first balcony and the restroom. Jeff went to a urinal. I went to the farthest stall, the one against the wall and furthest from the door. I was expecting the worst.

Before I could finish unbuckling my jeans, it began. It seemed as if I was firing a retro-rocket as I sat down. I figure that I was four seconds into the burn for descent and hovering over the toilet before I started to monitor my wristwatch. Finally, I finished making a soft landing on the seat. Yet the butt blast continued, and I was watching the seconds tick away on my watch. I began to feel like I might spend the rest of my life there, farting. The gas leak lasted 25 measured seconds but had begun perhaps as many as five or six seconds before I started to time it. Gratefully, it subsided. For all the discomfort I endured through the movie, it was nothing but gas. Had Ripley's been there to document the moment, it might have set a world's record.

When I emerged from the stall, there was a gross absense of any other life in the restroom. That in itself was odd, as there were over two hundred people in the theater. I exited the restroom and descended the stairs. For whatever reason, everyone in the lobby was staring at me. I looked for Chris and finally found him distantly ready to exit. Once he saw me, he pushed against the door and was immediately outside.

I ran to catch up to Chris in the parking lot. He turned and focused on my eyes, "What the hell was that?"

I stepped back, honestly having no clue what he was talking about.

"You farted for like ten seconds."

"Twenty five actually. Maybe a bit longer, I don't know."

"You are proud of it then?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, actually, I am. So, I farted. Like you have never farted?"

"I have never farted for 25 seconds!"

"Well, eat kimchee and drink diet soda on top of it."

"You know there were people who needed to go to the restroom that heard that thing and turned around at the door and left.  I cut mine off short and hurried out for fear you'd say something to me, like, 'how was that?"

"I thought about it. But, well, it didn't even stink," I offered.

"How does that even matter?"

"Well, it matters to me."

"Does it, really?"

"Yes, it actually does."

"I'm not so sure I shouldn't just let you walk back to the dorm."

"I'm over and done with it. It is all out of me."

"How do I know that?"

"Dude, it lasted for better than 25 seconds. What else could I possibly have left in me?"

"You tell me?"

"Well, I think we are safe for the drive home."

"Roll your window down."

"You're serious."

"Hell, yes, I want to live and breathe."

"Chris, we are roommates."

"And I'm going to call you the 'gas man' from now on"

"It was harmless! It didn't stink."

"In your opinion. What a comfort that would be to all the people who might have been trapped in the theater with you had it erupted during the movie."

"I respectfully held it back and was in misery for my efforts."

"At least I lite mine when I have a fart fit."

I chuckled.

"Dude," Chris drew a deep breath before continuing. "I will admit that was an achievement."

"But I think it was a good thing that I didn't light it."

"The Chamber of Commerce for the City of Monterey and outlying areas thanks you."

Hollywood California

shining silver-screen stars
illusions inspiring intrusions
deleterious dogmatic disaster
hedonistic Hollywood heretical
cinematic California carcinomas

ribald raucous raunchy relevance
gregarious gargantuan grotesque
twinkling tinsel titillating travesties
expressive eloquence extroverted

beautiful burlesque buffoon backlash
frenetic fantastic fairyland fornication
marvelous mischievous malevolence
picturesque preposterous perversion

Prophecy Of The Cats - From Shattered Truce

A dark page in history
of all that are cat
has finally been turned
open to reveal.

As legends once uttered
grow potential in fulfillment,
the words of ancestors
have returned to us.

Guhl, fur of our fur,
blood of our blood,
Lord of the moonless dark,
foretold before he danced away
into the Eternity of Shadows.

Hear his words
that no longer will
seem an enigma!

When the no moons have ended
these things will commence:

One will be as many in the flesh.
From the outworld another will come,
yet he will not know
the true place of origin.

A friend seems an enemy.
Many reunite with ancestors.
He will stand motionless
while all others war
against a common foe.

Unmoving he shall remain until
all that was hidden is revealed.
Cat beside wolf will battle
deadly forces at the will.

Puissant is the blood of the one.
A greater will,
the one made nameless,
keeper of the balance
merged in all.

As in the first times,
Gebo's red eyes glow
in impenetrable darkness
the void of nocturnal delusion.

From a mist green with envy
for the truth of blue,
the spirit compromises
arise to bind contradiction in nature,
wolf and cat are as one.

The peace to release tormented souls
usher the harmony
at the conclusion
of all things.

Interface

Horrific!
The word echoed within Andy's mind
as smothering panic overcame him.
He remembered an impression,
from some way station along
the course of his
mental meandering.

He'd returned to the nightmare
flame consuming all within,
the crumpled mass of steel;
inverted he had dangled,
unable to escape the burning.

Rescued at some point,
all he could do was surmise.
Him mind was elsewhere,
and else when
He wish to be anywhere else.

Awakening he was immersed
within oxygenated, healing
gelatinous goop.
His life depended upon it
but his instinctual response
was revulsion and gagging.

Lung scarred
from breaths of flame
He fought the fear
of suffocation;
the fear of drowning
while starving for air.

When he could not
hold his breath
any longer
he gave up,
fully expecting
that his heart
would lud-thump
and thud-lump until
the oxygen expired
and then thud-thump
and lud-lump harder
and at an accelerated pace in panic
until vital conduits burst
and his heart ruptured
as his lungs finally exploded,
contained only by his rib cage.

Amazingly, that did not happen.

He realized that he could breathe the goop.
There was air dissolved in it
that filled his lungs; he drew oxygen from it
and by it he survived.

With that revelation,
that he had always survived,
the ocean of madness
compelled him
toward the source,
the unifying identity
that was still tied into
the Ethosphere.

There was something
he needed to do and
he needed the resources
of the interface.

In Our Image

I was scared
to death really
if truth be known,
I died before he was born.
What did I know
about being a father?
I was thirty
going on three.

Responsibility,
a newborn life
cradled in my arms
the moment
I met my son. I realized it was
just as once
my father had held me.

Suddenly,
It was alright.
all made sense.
He squirmed a bit,
reddened in the face,
and prepared his audible protest.

Something about
the arrangement
was not to the liking
of my newborn prince.

I adjusted quickly,
Grateful,
his temper subsided.
So began the bonding
of father
and son.

Who would he
take after?
Who would
He resemble?
Asian mother or
American father?

In truth, it was both.
Sharing the best
of each image,
as in heritage,
he was born
a little god.

That first day
of July, 1986
he was
gifted in Seoul to
very proud parents.

We're mere mortals
in the grander
cosmic scheme.

Just Keep It

You've made me wonder
about some things.
Could I be as worthless
as you seem to think?
Am I the ticking time bomb for
others to maintain safe distance.

As you wait to unleash
jealous, venomous tirades,
self-righteous and sanctimonious
in your hypocrisy,
what is it in your safe harbor
that you fear so much?

In your conception of reality,
I am the full-grown prodigal orphan,
the only son of our dysfunctional clan
who is intent on leeching
everything you've squirreled.

You gave up your dream.
I found mine once again.
You continue pretense but to what end -
more of the same subservience
to the lord all-mighty greenback
and your various investments?

You worship daily,
trembling in fear of losing
everything you've saved.
I can't be like you,
walking in the shadow
of your empty example.

Without fear of poverty,
I know how to survive.
You could have just said no.
But you elaborated,
and pontificated,
forcing your advice.

The request for assistance,
not a grant and certainly
expecting no longwinded lecture
on self-reliance,
integrity and responsibility.
I needed none of that.

So, forget I called.
I'll ignore your questions.
What is holiest to thou,
I want you to keep.
Maintain close at hand
all your worthless paper.

The Seven After Dinner Farts

There are exactly seven of them. Who knew, right? But once someone explained them to me, I came up with brief descriptions of each type. You might think that I have an obsession with flatulence, but I don't. It's just that, as many people have said time and again, farts are funny. At times, they're rude and vulgar as well, but we all fart. If you claim that yours don't stink, you're mistaken, or self-deluded. At least I have always given a fair warning before delivering even the tiniest of butt burps.

For your edification, the seven after dinner farts are (in order): fizz, fuzz, fizz/fuzz, foo, tele-foo, tear-ass, and rattler.

Allow me to explain each.

1) Fizz - Tight, compressed but rather distinct and unmistakable fart of relatively brief duration. There are many types of fizz farts, from the light and fluffy, nearly odorless popcorn fart to the particularly malodorous stench wrench. The fabled, useless 'fart in a whirlwind' was definitely a fizz.

2) Fuzz - A bit more fluid than a fizz, it is nevertheless an immediate attention-getter. The gas erupts like a power chord on a distorted rock guitar. Because of the relative wetness of this sort of fart, it is seldom without some bouquet that closely relates to whatever was consumed that lingered long enough in the bowels to generate a quantity of gas. Soup-bean farts are often associated with this category and frequently a fuzz leaves residue.

3) Fizz/fuzz - Rather than being a combination of the two distinct component parts, this fart takes on a nature all of its own. It may sound as an alarm oscillating between the fizz and fuzz sounds or it may be a single burst of consistently blubbering sound, accompanied by the most condensed reek of any fart. These sorts of farts are often associated with the consumption of roughage, such as the raw cabbage in cole slaw along with baked beans and greasy chicken, washed down with a cold diet soda or, even worse, beer. What happens within the bowels of anyone consuming such a volatile mixture is a chain reaction that is something just shy of becoming thermonuclear. American firecracker farts, the loud but brief in duration version of this category occur after picnics, especially on the Fourth of July. In some other countries the fizz/fuzz is considered a weapon of mass destruction and has been banned from public places - even where smoking is permitted, possibly due to the danger of ignition or spontaneous combustion.

4) Foo -  A fart that issues without much of a sound but usually has a stench associated with it. It almost never smells like 'your kind of fart' and has the singular reputation for being the one type that even embarrasses the dealer into a process of immediate denial and rapid assignment of blame to others. This category of fart has become legendary in such phrases as 'whoever first smelt it dealt it' and the proverbial 'silent but deadly' category. Although there is usually no residue, it sometimes prompts the dealer to change underwear - just in case the odor 'lingers in the linen'.

5) Tele-foo - A foo that is erupts in one room but is heard and smelt in another. It is a foo, nevertheless. Depending on the situation, it could be the source of mistaken identity in charging the blame for the foo. Always remember that some farts can penetrate walls or pass through closed doors and windows -and occasionally warp through time and space into the future or the past depending on the direction of the fart, the angular velocity and the alignment of the sun, moon and stars.

6) Tear-ass  -  A self-descriptive and mostly self-explanatory fart. Someone who delivers such a flatulent discharge may, at first, be greatly relived that the pressure on the sphincter is gone. It is the following burning sensation that leads to the unfounded concern that whatever emerged from deep within has also left a trail of blood, as if from a bleeding wound. Despite the name of this category of fart, rarely is there irreparable harm. Gratefully for the rest of us, they are somewhat rare.

7) Rattler - A fart that literally registers on the Richter scale. Not only does this category of fart produce the low rumbling sound associated with natural disasters like tornadoes, earthquakes and drive-by gangsta rap mobiles, it will almost always rattle doors and windows, hence its name. In the most extreme case, it make break glass and cause doors to shake loose from their locks and latches. Fortunately for most people and their property, a rattler is a once or maybe twice in a lifetime achievement.

The longest rattler ever recorded lasted for 25 seconds yet harmed nothing but reputations! Despite the boisterous bravado, rattlers are all about the noise but contain very little in the way of substance. They may wake sleeping dogs, cause cats to take cover under the bed or precipitate small children cowering behind their mothers for protection, but they really are not obnoxiously fragrant as a rule. As warning, many westerners produce rattlers after consuming copious quantities of an Asian delicacy called Kimchee, a tasty staple in the diet of the average Korean produced from raw vegetables to which garlic, red pepper and monosodium glutamate are added then allowed to ferment.

The preceding list may not be all-inclusive of every subcategory of flatulent discharge. It is also possible for individual variation within each category. It was compiled by a group of experts after extensive study in a college fraternity following several weeks consuming campus food and partying to excess every weekend during which much beer and soda were consumed, but no animals were harmed.  

The Confusion 'Principal' - Autobiographical

From the first day that I was in Mrs. Hibbett's English class, she mispronounced my name.  She insisted that I should be called 'L-Jon' instead of 'L-Gun', the way my family pronounced my name.  I took it as an insult but even still if she insisted on calling me 'L-Jon', I could tolerate it for a while.  I guess that I thought that maybe eventually she would get it right.  Who was I to correct an English teacher on how to pronounce something?  Except it irked me.  It was my name and as far as I could tell she handled everyone else's name just as they pronounced it.  Why was she singling me out as the only student who was mispronouncing a first name?

She had ignored the first couple of times when I had attempted to correct her; she persisted calling me L-Jon.  The more I tolerated it the longer it would linger as a continuing irritation.

To that point in life I was a rather quiet, generally shy person.  I was a listener more so than a talker and a watcher more so than a doer.  I tried to never make trouble for myself or anyone else.  Then, one day all of that changed.

I don't know why it happened as it did or even what happened to trigger it.  Maybe it was that my voice had begun to deepen and hair had begun to replace the fuzz of youth in my private places. I might have even got up on the proverbial wrong side of the bed.  Sin of all sins, I ignored Mrs. Hibbett calling someone named 'L-Jon' to the front of the class to do board work. It was a silent protest and despite her repeating the request, I was sitting there staring into space. I  completely ignored her while trying not to notice that every eye in the classroom was suddenly trained upon me.

She got up from her desk, and walked over to my side of the room. We were seated alphabetically, of course. So I was pretty-much at the back of the room and furthest from the door as my last name started with a 'W'.  All the other tail-enders of the arbitrary alphabetical segregation were seated in the same ghetto of surnames around me. Mrs. Hibbett walked right up to my desk. She angrily planted her high heels into  the resilient tile floor and reiterated that she wanted someone named 'L-Jon' to do board work.

"Excuse me but are you talking to me?"

"Who else would I be talking to, 'L-Jon'?"

"Oh, that's the problem.  My name is pronounced 'L-Gun' not 'L-Jon'."

"It should be pronounced 'L-Jon'," she insisted.

"That is how you choose to pronounce it.  It is my name and I can pronounce it any way I damned-well want to!"

Of course, she sent me to the office.  I was sitting in the outer office awaiting a conference with either Mr. Smith the assistant principal or Mr. Irvine as the latter walked by and said, "Bill, what brings you down here?"

"Mrs. Hibbett sent me to see you."

"Come in, then."

I got up and followed him into his office, closing the door behind me.

"Have a seat," Mr. Irvine said as he offered me a jawbreaker from a jar that he kept on his desk.  "Okay tell me the story."

"Mrs. Hibbett has been mispronouncing my name ever since the first day I reported to her class."

"How do ya mispronounce Bill?"

"Well, that's just it.  My name is Elgon."

"It is?"

"Yes sir.  I think you got Bill from my last name being first on my transcript from military school."

"Oh, oh yeah, that must be how that happened.  Well, be that as it may, it is your name.  I suppose you could pronounce it 'Mike' if you wanted to."

"Well, that is sort of what I told her."

"That is silly.  Why would she send you down here over something like that?"

"It was probably the way I expressed it."

"What exactly did you say?"

"I told her I could pronounce my name any way I damned-well wanted to."

"Oh, well, yes that would matter," he said.  "That is over the top.  It is not good to swear at a teacher, especially in front of the entire class.  You disrespected her and undermined her authority."

"I know that.  I usually don't swear.  I didn't intend to undermine her authority it is just that she belligerently counters everything I say to her in class, always quick with a sarcastic come back.  I have been taking it all along.  It just made me very mad that she refuses to say my name the way I want it to be pronounced."

"Well, she is a very good teacher.  It is just that sometimes her style does not agree with certain people.  Are you learning from her?"

"Yes, I am learning.  It is just the sarcasm that bothers me and her refusal to pronounce my name the way that I prefer."

"Well, I want you to go back to class and apologize to her in front of everyone for swearing and being disrespectful.  As for the name thing, well, I have to agree with you on that one.  I'll have a talk with her about it."

He hurriedly wrote out a hall pass and told me to return to class and refrain from using harsh language in the future.

When I returned to Mrs. Hibbett's classroom, every eye was again trained upon me.

"Well?" she asked.

"Mr. Irvine said that I am to apologize to you for the language I used and for being disrespectful and undermining your authority."

"And..."

"I'm sorry for that and it won't happen again."

"That's good."

"But he agrees with me that it is my name and I can expect it to be pronounced any way I want it to."

I could see her face redden. Whether it was from embarrassment or rage I was not sure.

"Well from now on I will call you Mr. Williams.  That is how you pronounce your last name, isn't it?"

"Yes ma'am."

I was grateful that at that moment the bell rang.  Unfortunately, she wanted me to stay after class for a bit.

When everyone left the room, she closed the door.

"What is your problem with me?  Really?"

"It is just that you refuse to pronounce my name the way I was used to and when I corrected you on it you continually ignored me.  Other than that I don't like being put down all the time."

"Put down?"

"Your sarcasm bothers me.  If I said to you what you say to me in class I would live in the office."

"I see.  Well, I was unaware that you had a problem with any of that..."

"Look, if you don't mean anything by it, I guess that's okay.  I was not in the mood for any of it today, that's all.  I am really very sorry that I swore at you.  I won't do it again."

"Go on to your next class."

Gracious Gifts

Writing hungry, living humble,

poetic messages serves to feed

the masses who starve

for the Divine truth.

The purpose

beyond us,

positive

attitude,

distortion

filtering lies

shadows soft spoken.

In the beautiful background,

knowing the truth is still there.

Falling from grace did end Eden.

Veiled beneath illusion's curtain,

The world's forward front's fabric,

before eyes, masking perfection

with layers of soul's deceptions,

our souls despair what was lost.

Paradise arrives in mind's state,

Thru prayer's positive powers,

match God's gracious gifts. 

Productive Procrastination

A while ago, as a result of a gross error, my family was forced to move on nothing more than a month's notice. I had never gone through an eviction before. It was not because of late rent payments or anything so comprehensible. It was something very silly.

A broken sprinkler head shot up, piercing the metal soffit outside of the master bedroom. At night, when the sprinklers were on, water streamed up through the hole and into the attic. From there it ran down the wall and out through the baseboards and under the master bedroom carpet. Literally, it soaked the floor as well as ruining the ceiling and walls. The damage was excessive but hardly our fault. Who in their right mind would place a sprinkler head on a riser, in a flowerbed directly under a soffit? Then again who would categorically blame me for 'willfully' running a garden hose up through 'said' hole in the soffit and damaging the house in such a bizarre way?

Landlords!

At any rate, on Super Bowl Sunday, the very night of the infamous Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake halftime 'wardrobe malfunction', we were served with our eviction notice. We had a month to pack up and move out. Reasoning with the landlord proved impossible. Even demonstrating how the damage happened couldn't change his mind. So, we found another rental house, one that was actually much nicer and closer to the kids' schools. Before the end of the month, we moved.

For the most part, the movers consisted of my son, Rob, and me. Rob was a senior in high school. He took a couple of days off to help me. I had to hurriedly take a vacation. When my daughters, Amanda and Sarah, were finished with school for the day, they helped their mother with moving the lighter things. Somehow, we made it through the ordeal. Families have to do those sorts of things.

As you might imagine, Rob and I did the majority of the heavy moving of the appliances, the spinet piano and the larger pieces of furniture. Regardless how big and strong my son and I were, we were at least two people short of the proper number necessary for negotiating that damned piano down the ramp from the moving truck, across the front threshold and into the sunken living room of our new place. The experience was both backbreaking and life-threatening.

Afterwards, my son and I were so physically spent that we wanted nothing more than to soak in a tub of hot water and take a long, well-deserved rest. Yet the truck still contained several more items, some of them fairly large, and others, like the refrigerator, were very heavy as well. My son recovered far more quickly than I did. Kids are resilient like that. Old people notice those things and envy youth.

When I walked up the ramp and into the back of the truck, Rob was anticipating grabbing hold of one of the larger objects and together carrying it into the house. He stood in utter amazement, if not disbelief, as I picked up one and only one rather light box. I turned and, taking my time, I carried it into the house. When I returned up the ramp and back into the truck, I gathered up some more of the lighter, loose things.

"Dad, what are you doing?" Rob asked me.

"This is called 'productive procrastination'," I said. "It is the appearance of being busy or doing necessary things of lesser importance while, in fact, doing little or nothing to minimize the expenditure of energy due to the gross lack of inspiration, motivation, or strength."

Rob shook his head, but at least I made him smile on a day that had been less than fun.

The Way

Faith, not
Belief, is 
What we need. 
It's the way we 
Receive a
Fuller life. 

A Reverence For Rain

It rained here yesterday. It has been doing that quite a bit lately. Despite the intensity the volume rain here can sometimes achieve, the climate is considered semi-arid. Florida is almost like a desert at times, especially during extended summertime droughts. I guess that's a reason for The Sunshine State moniker. There have been entire months without a drop to quench the soil's parched palate.

Living here for so much of my life has been with strange acquiescence to the prevalent weather conditions. Missing the more regular rains of living up north, when it does rain I always take pleasure in the resurrected memories of my past.

Association of the rain with peace and rest comes from being a farm boy. When it rained I didn't have to work in the fields or do much of anything else. I'd sit with my dad and watch the rain. The crops were happy in their fields. My dad was happy his investment in the grain he'd sewn in the fields would be returned with a profit during the fall harvest. The world around me felt right.

Enjoying the rain is a part of the farm life within that has never departed me. Regardless of the intervening years, I revere rain in a way that probably seems strange to most of the city dwellers that are my neighbors.

When I settled down, I married a farm girl from the other side of the planet world. It rained for one of the days we went to her family home to visit her parents and siblings. They knew nothing about me, really. There was a huge language barrier between us. The Asian language I spoke was not the one they understood. Still, like me they regarded the rain with joy as we sat quietly under the protection of their roof. Content to sit with them, they felt as I did. There is much less distance between people who share love for the land and growing things.

We had a front porch on our Victorian style home in Connecticut where my wife and I spent many years raising our three kids. Whenever it rained and both of us were home, we'd sit on the porch swing together, savoring the cool air and the soothing sounds of the raindrops on the roof over our heads. Those moments have become many of the best memories I have of married life. There was peace in the world and ease in my life unlike anything I have known since. The rain was a bond to our childhoods that my wife and I shared.

What Are The Odds? - A True Story

Living and learning in California, and being paid for it - what could be better?

When I was assigned to study at the Defense Language Institute at the Presidio of Monterey. On weekends, my friends went to the beach in Carmel or I drove up to San Francisco to spend a day sight seeking. On longer holiday weekends, we drove Los Angeles.

We didn't have to drive far to find stunning scenery. The Lone Cypress is on the picturesque coastline south of the Monterey and Carmel area. Big Sur has some of the most spectacular views in the world. I spent a fortune in film for my Minolta taking many pictures.

One weekend in the latter part of the summer, my Chinese Mandarin class, most of whom were also a part of the Air Force Training Squadron stationed at DLI, attended a picnic at the Big Sur State Park. Due to the nature of the intense training we were receiving, any time away from the Institute was a welcome diversion. It was a great way to loosen up and, in the process, get to know the other people in the class without all the formalities of military discipline.

For the most part, it was a traditional cookout, replete with hamburgers, hot dogs and all the fixings. On the side there were baked beans, coleslaw, corn on the cob and watermelon. The class invited all of our Chinese language instructors. Each of them contributed to the meal, providing a sampling of the best Chinese cuisine.

As the afternoon wound down, we grew weary of playing volleyball and horseshoes. We cleaned up, packed up and loaded up our cars for our return north.

My roommate, Chris, had a car. I rode down to the picnic with him. Each of us had a few beers over the course of the afternoon. In lieu of being able to drive afterwards, Chris consumed much less than I did. Still, as we drove back up the coast, we both found the pressures on our bladders growing intense. The urgency to find relief consumed our thoughts and dominated our conversation.

If you have never driven on the Pacific Coast Highway, let me explain. Between Big Sur State Park and Carmel, there were exactly no filling stations, no roadside rest areas or anywhere else to stop to use the facilities. I suggested to Chris that we find a nice long lane that wound up from the highway into the coastal hills. It seemed like the perfect solution and so the next time we saw an entrance to a lane, Chris slowed down and we turned off the road. There was a fence to either side of the lane as we ascended the hill. When we reached a locked gate, we stopped. It seemed far enough off the road that no one would observe us as we relieved ourselves on the grass.

Where I grew up, on a farm in Ohio, it was natural. Whenever I was out in a field or a cow pasture and needed to take a leak, I did. The place we picked kind-of reminded me of a cow pasture back home, except for the rather steep incline of the lane's ascent from the highway to the gate.

As Chris was on the upside of his car and I was on the downside, each of us purging our bladders, another car came up the lane and startled us. It underscored the random bad luck of our choice.

Inside the car was a California Highway Patrol officer. As we learned rather quickly, the lane and the surrounding land was his. "I don't appreciate you boys peeing on my front yard."

What are the odds?

"I'm very sorry, officer," Chris said. "We didn't intend any offense. It's just there is nowhere around here to, well..."

"You boys are in the military, I take it."

"Yessir," Chris said.

"Fort Ord?'

"Nosir," I said. "We're in the Air Force. We're stationed at DLI."

"The language school."

"Yessir," Chris said.

"I was in the Air Force myself," the officer said, "Security Police. Spent my entire tour of duty in one of the coldest places on the face of the Earth."

"Minot, North Dakota?" I ventured a guess.

"How did you guess?" the officer said, then chuckled. "You've been there?"

"I've heard stories. It's one of the places they send people like us if we washout of language school. Because of our security clearances, they train us to be SP's."

"What's in Minot?" Chris asked.

"A whole lot of holes in the ground," the officer said.

"ICBM's in silos," I explained to Chris.

"Oh, those kind of holes"

"Yeah," I said.

"You know what, I'm off-duty right now. I really don't want to deal with any more paperwork today. And seeing as how you boys are in the Air Force and all, I'll accept your apologies. But, in the future, please don't pee in other peoples' front yards, okay?"

"Yessir," Chris and I said in unison.

"Drive carefully. I'll back up my car a bit so you can get around me."

"Yessir," Chris said, and then smiled. "Thank you, officer."

When we were back inside the car and backing down the lane, Chris glanced my way. "Great idea you had there, dude!"

"Hey, I couldn't hold it any longer. Could you?'

"No."

"There you go, then."

"What are the odds? I mean seriously, what are the friggin' odds?"

Skyrocket To Obscurity

The anticipated private rebellion came on schedule. It was borne of the not-so-strange but uniquely teen combination of a near mature body, almost mature mind, wide mood swings and erratic hormone levels. I don't think my dad and mom understood me. I know that it is the mantra of all teen angst, but my parents REALLY did not understand me.

I saved some money from my allowance and from helping my dad on the farm. I borrowed some from my sister and a few bucks from Mom. There was a bass guitar and amplifier offered for sale in the want ads of the Springfield Sun. Mom drove me there.

The guy who was selling the equipment lived a few blocks from a Baptist church my family used to attend. We learned from talking to the man that the Fender Precision Bass guitar and Univox amplifier and speaker cabinets were only a few months old. He'd been the bassist for a Gospel band that played at the church we used to attend but the band broke up and he could no longer afford to make the payments ont he equipment. So he was selling them for what he still owed. It was perfect.

First, I learned whatever I could from musicians, kids I knew who played in the high school orchestra. Mike, a friend I made the first day I transferred to the high school, played bass in the school's string ensemble. He also knew piano and a couple of other instruments. I had some experience playing alto saxophone when I was in junior high. I already knew the principal difference of a bass guitar was that it had frets on the neck, which would make it easier to make notes.

As a member of my school's a'capella choir, I was accustomed to reading sheel music. During one of my study hall periods, my instructor, Miss Grimes was teaching me how to compose music,  something I really wanted to do. In addition to this sort of instant immersion method of learning music, I suffered through several bass guitar lessons in a music store at the Upper Valley Mall in Springfield.

In time, word got out that I was a bass guitarist. A small garage band that two brothers formed asked me if I would audition for them. Borrowing my dad's pick-up, I loaded my equipment and went over to their house. Along with Chris, the band's rhythm guitarist and personal friend of both brothers, we jammed as a quartet. We played some songs that each of us knew. In the course of the audition, they learned that not only could I play bass well enough to be in the band, but also I could sing while playing. When you are playing from the bass clef, singing lead vocals from the treble clef is a bit of a challenge.

Afterwards, every weekend we would practiced, whether it was at Dave and Rick's house, Chris' garage or the vacant house that we were restoring on my dad's farm. As I was the only one in the bad with a driver's licence and a car, I was often the transportation between houses. Whenever the guys came over to my place, I had to borrow my dad's pick-up to haul all of our equipment. The guys brought changes and clothes and sleeping bags and spent the weekend. If we weren't rehearsing, we did a lot of things farm kids do that boys from the suburbs know little or nothing about, like skinny-dipping in a deep pool of the creek that ran through my dad's farm. Sometimes we'd climb up into the haymow and use a rope to swing down from stacks of hay, pretending to be Tarzan. Other times, we took turns riding my horse. When the need arose, we peed on trees and bushes. Over the course of a Spring and Summer, we bonded as a band and as friends.  

Anytime we practicing at Chris' place, it was a drag. After a while, the neighbors would complain and we would have to move all of our equipment down to the basement. What was nice about play in the garage was all the neighborhood's girls that were our ages or a little younger were dancing in the driveway as we attempted to play some of their favorite songs.

Mainly, we practiced at Dave and Rick's house. It was where Rick had his drum kit set up nearly all the time. Rick hated tearing the kit down just to take it somewhere to practice for an afternoon, but it couldn't always be avoided. Dave and Rick's mom didn't mind if we practiced at the house as long as she wasn't home. Chris' mom was even less tolerant. That was one of the reasons we used the vacant house on my dad's farm.

Dave and Rick shared that room with all the amplifiers and the drums. After the first time auditioning there, I never again hauled my bass amplifier and cabinet to Dave and Rick's for a practice. There was no room. I plugged my bass into Dave's amp. Even though it was less than ideal, it worked well enough for practice. The only time we ever played with my amp was in the house on my dad's farm, or on the rare occasion that we performed some live venue.

Early in the fall of my junior year, my sister, who was the president of her sorority, hired us to play for a party. We got paid, which technically made us professional musicians. We set up outside in a garage next to the chapter house. With garage door open wide, played for about three hours. We played everything we knew, even some things I had written but we had never really practiced all that much. We played several requested songs, most of them numbers The Beatles or the Rolling Stones recorded. We continued practicing and performing whenever we could arrange for a gig. All the while we were not only improving as individual musicians, but also in tightness of our synchroniation. Sometimes we would pool our resources and purchase something to improve the band's public address system. Other times we'd upgrade out ownindividual equipment.  

Our performance schedule schedule the summer before my senior year was busy. My sister got us into an arts festival at Wittenberg University, where she attended college. We performed two songs, our best, before an audience of perhaps a hundred, no one out ages. They didn't seem to be there to hear our musical 'combo' - as they called us.

Later we performed at the Clark County Fair. It was free, outdoor concert. Still, it gave us a lot of necessary exposure. It was also the very first time I wore a white satin suit my mother had made for me. My parents, friends, one of my sisters and my nephew were there to witness the performance. I personally felt that we sucked horribly, but everyone in the audience was polite. We couldn't have been that bad. A few people asked for our contact numbers and we got a few gigs playing at parties.

There is a monumental difference for a live band performing outdoors as opposed to performing indoors. If you think about it, the acoustics are completely different. The ambiance is strange. Even though we were technically outside whenever we were performing in a garage, the building behind us lent some support to the sound. Any musician who has ever performed outdoors can tell you it just sounds weird. The feedback of the echoes is missing. Everything about the music feels flat and dead.

During my senior year, Chris' mother got us a gig at the Clark County Children's Home. I considered my sister paying us for the gig at her sorority as charity, the Children's Home was really our first paying gig. It was a very big deal for the band.

We played two hours and every one of us performed a solo piece. Mine was a bluesy riff I was working on for a rock opera called One Thane. I was composing it for my Senior English class. Why Senior English? The composition was based on the epic poem, Beowulf. A portion of the finished rock opera was to be sung in the original Old English, as I had set the lyric to music.

When we played out our scheduled time and exhausted most of the songs we knew, the children cheered for us to return to play something else. We gave them two more songs. Then the home's administrators took charge. It was getting late and, anyway, we needed to be on our way.

It was a strange evening for us as a band, in a good sort of way. We really clicked, perhaps for the first time. We sounded damned good. It was almost as if we awakened in a future time when we were seasoned veterans of the road.

The children were incredibly appreciative of our music. They were dancing, singing along, cheering - some of them were even hovering close to the stage watching our every move, as if we were stars. I have to admit, at first that felt creepy, but when I realized the kids were into us, it felt great. That sensation could become addicting enough for someone to leave home, friends and family for months at a time to continue feeding the need. Before that concert, I didn't understand the motivation of stars to perform live.

For the first time ever, some of the audience asked us for autographs! We signed a couple dozen. Maybe they were just an overly appreciative audience. Regardless, it was a night of many firsts for the band.

From that point on, I believed we were destined for greatness. We began rehearsing the songs I had written for One Thane. It was hard at first. The arrangements were strange for Dave and Rick. The beat was clearly not typical of Rock and Roll. It was more like Jazz with a smattering of Blues.

I was doing the project with my friend, Brice. He wrote the percussion portions of the pieces. I did the lyrics, the bass lines and the lead guitar. The rhythm guitar played off the lead lines for the most part, with some room for the rythm to become a counter to the lead guitar work at times. There was a place that could have used keyboards, but we didn't have a piano though we probably could have persuaded a friend to play the piano pieces separately and overdubbed it later.

Throughout the winter, the rehearsals continued, every Saturday afternoon and sometimes Sunday as well. A few times we huddled in a room in a very large and nearly restored farmhouse on my dad's property to play it with every instrument cranked up to be louder than everything else. The resulting cacophony was nearly ear splitting. But it was fun to see how loud we could be with every potentiometer on our amplifiers and public address turned to 'ten''

Then, in the last throes of winter, on the second weekend of March, we holed-up in the house where we had often practiced. The purpose was to record at least a portion of One Thane.

From a few friends and some fellow musicians I met over the previous couple of years, I borrowed some state of the art equipment. We had a mixer board and a four- channel, multi-sync reel to reel that was capable of recording overdubs, effectively making it like a sixteen-track recorder. We already owned some very sensitive microphones, most of them picked up in a cardioid pattern. We borrowed one with a very narrow directional pattern and two others that were were bi-directional. We experimented with the use and placement of the microphones in recording different takes of the songs.

Brice was supposed to perform a couple of the songs on Rick's drum kit. One of the lessons I learned in producing One Thane was it not wise to ask a drummer to let another drummer play his kit. Rick was not happy with the arrangement. We discussed it in private for several minutes. Despite his personal feelings, it was a senior English project and Brice needed to be a part of it. After some initial sniping at one another, Rick and Brice actually started working together and eventually became friends out of some level of mutual respect. Rick was more seasoned at playing in a band and maintaining the beat while interspersing rolls and such. Brice seemed to best Rick at counter rhythm. What Brice could do drew immediate attention to the percussive element in the music.

After a good deal of discussion, Brice and I agreed that he should bring his drum kit from home to the house and we record his parts that way. What resulted were really two drummers trying to one up one another at times. It was interesting, perhaps, but much of it was eventually removed in edits to the master recording.

When we had finished the recording most of the raw material for the project, we all listened to the tracks. Each one of us thought we could do better. After some rest, we decided to play the entire work through live from start to finish. What emerged was a reference track that Brice's friend, also named Rick but we all called him Flea Head, would use to make the best possible recording of each song, then record the final mix to a cassette tape.

In early April, the culmination of hours of practice and work was ready to be presented to my senior English class. Brice and I set up the tape deck, speakers and amplifier for the performance. We used a little ZZ Top track at the intro to get the sound balance right for everything. Then the rock opera began.

It was an amateur production from the outset, but we had used some pretty good equipment to capture the recording. In the process of post-production, Flea Head mastered a fine sample of what we intended to do. It was far from perfect. Perhaps if we were working with people more professional than us, more experienced than high school students, we could have pulled that miracle off as well. Still, everyone was impressed. It wasn't that Brice and I had created a rock opera. We performed it and it was actually something that you could listen to and find things in it that you liked.

Does that tape still exist? My mother had a copy of it somewhere in her things. If it still exists, it was so long ago that I doubt it is even playable. Flea Head kept the master, and Mrs. Hiles, my Senior English teacher received a copy of the tape as well. So who knows?

As hard as Brice and I worked on that project, I'd like to think that there is still some evidence.