The Joy of Scar Tissue

My grandpa used to tell me stories of all the stupid shit he did as a kid, and got away with most of it. His stories never had a point to them, no lesson because he had caught me doing something very similar. No, he was bragging. And he did a lot of stupid shit, I already posted about his riding a bull on the ranch, but he also got his first speeding ticket at eleven years old, and had once torched a tree with a flaming arrow because he was trying to shoot a crow. After he died earlier this year, it dawned on me that I, too, have done a ton of stupid shit in my life. I jumped off the roof of our mobile home at nine years old, not because I thought I was the distant relative of Kal-El that had also survived his exploding home world after reading those comic books. No, I knew that was all made up, I thought I was a goddamn mutant ninja turtle. Who knew that their super powers kicked in with the whole teenager bit of their story line? And with that jump off the roof, which is only about fifteen feet off the ground, I didn't break anything. No bones, no property damage, hell I didn't even get a scratch or bump on my non-turtle mutated body. That stupid ass idea just affected my young psyche, it scared the ever living shit out of me to never do that again. Not on purpose anyway. And to this date, I have not jumped from the roof of any mobile homes, I did from the roof of a house I was working on but that was because I forgot to secure the ladder and the wind blew the damn thing down, leaving me with just that one option of jumping. I refused to call the fire department to come rescue my ass off a roof, the laughing would never stop in this damn little town. Also, I did not break any part of my body then either. Score one more for that one day they taught us gymnastic tumbling in elementary school, they told me to remember to “tuck and roll” and I have never forgotten. I fell out of a moving golf cart in college, more than once... okay, five times, because I was goofing around, and once again that tumbling lesson kicked in, no injuries.

I'm not saying I've never been hurt, I've broken every bone in both feet, not all at the same time, I like to break one or two at a time just to give myself that extra challenge of walking with high amounts of screaming pain, all because I'm clumsy as crap and have a difficult time not dropping weights right on the top of my foot. That leg day at the gym can go suck a donkey's ass. I'm so used to breaking a damn toe that I just put up with the pain anymore. I broke my wrist in high school because I ride my bike like a bat out of hell and some girl ran in front of me, I hit both brakes learning how Issac Newton got the whole inertia thing correct when I flew over the handle bars. I like to think that I looked like some bad ass martial artist doing a flip on the ground with one hand, but the cast I had said differently. Out of high school I got a job doing construction work and had to tear apart a lot of showers, I learned that first time that there is a sharp metal mesh under that tile holding up the cement attached to said tile. I slipped on some busted up concrete, grabbed the shower faucet, turning on the water and fell back onto that freshly cut metal and sliced my back open. Right down the spine, from ass crack to shoulder blades. I'll tell you what, that hurt like a mother, and bled like a stuck pig too, that left me with a nice Harry Potter style scar down the center of my back. I called a friend of mine to take me to the hospital for it and he said it wasn't that bad so he just used duck tape and gauze I had in my truck to bandage me up. Don't do that kid's, pulling duck tape off is the worst pain I have ever had.

I don't have any tattoos, because I have enough scars. Scars are simply a natural tattoo with a much better story. I once cut my thumb open with a pressure washer because water is a power that people under estimate. That happens to be my favorite scar. Another scar I have is just a little dot on my hand, between the thumb and forefinger on my left hand, and is not easy to spot because it just looks like a freckle. When I was tearing apart another shower, if did that for five or six years because it's a good way to get out aggression and anger, I was using a grinder on a nasty tough bit of tile that just wouldn't allow itself to be removed from its home. The grinder caught, taking a foot long sliver off one tile, and sent that fucker right into my hand, and up the arm. Just under the skin, through the glove that bull-riders wear because nothing goes through those things. Pulling that thing out was the nastiest thing I have done, I looked like Wolverine with a dislocated needle sized claw made of ceramic tile. Just writing that out caused my skin to crawl again. My grandpa once decided that using dog shears on a six year old head would be a good idea since I had needed a haircut and the barber was closed. He didn't know that those shears would heat up that much and a dog's skin is much thicker than a human child's. Hello burn scar on the side of my head.

The one good concussion I have had was also on a demo job, I took a lot of damage to my body for a small amount of money, it was at a condo and for some stupid reason the builders thought that a stairway across from the doorway that headed to the third floor, and just for shits and giggles left the underside open for a “storage area.” I was telling my boss jokes the whole time and had nearly clocked myself on that stairway a few times before and we were having a hoot of a time about how close I had gotten. The final time, Randy, the guy I was working for, said I walked out with two full five gallon buckets of debris and slammed my head right into the timber, at full speed. I staggered backward and fell over the railing into a snowbank two stories below. Luckily the snow was fresh from the night before and a few feet thick so I had a nice soft landing. I do not remember any of that, other than what Randy told me over and over until he passed away a couple years ago. It was a great laugh at the fucking bar, because it was a story of someone else because that memory is just not there. Along with several other parts of my life at nineteen and twenty years old. Bits and pieces are there, like a couple faces I know some how but there are no names or reasons why I know those people are in the flitting memories. It's a pain in the ass. And I miss Randy, he wasn't the best boss I had, and not even close to the worst, but he was a damn fine friend that was always in for a good joke, the raunchier the better. He's the reason I love whiskey, and one reason I no longer drink alcohol, too. He was brash, and could be annoying as hell but was always smiling and could take a lot of jokes aimed right at him. My wit is stronger because of him, he was an easier target than my mom. He loved the song Walkin' 'Round InWomen's Underwear by Bob Rivers, and I try to get it played on the radio stations here at Christmas time, but they all claim it's too offensive to play. Bullshit, it's just a funny song, assholes, and my friend is dead and this request is in memory of him, get your prudish heads out of your asses and play the fucking song! So I just link to it from YouTube and tag him on Facebook, since his page will never go away. I learned a lot from that man, mostly what not to do, but when I have had people work for me, I make sure we have a good laugh or two. And I pay better. May that asshole rest in peace.

You can follow me on Facebook now, it's mostly links back to here but maybe I'll start posting some of those stupid jokes I told Randy, or link to Bob Rivers songs for the hell of it.

Back From Vacation

If you have been reading my blog for a while, you might have noticed I haven't posted anything in a couple of weeks. I was on vacation, and I mostly ditch the interwebs and tech while I'm relaxing on one. It's quite enjoyable to just not worry about anything and then get back and bam! twenty million emails and notifications on Facebook. That keeps me busy for a day or so just to catch up. For my vacations, I head off to Disneyland, for a week at a time. A week in the happiest place on earth is just not enough time, and ever since there was a report that some guy went seven hundred days in a row, I decided this would be a record I am more than willing to break. I enjoy Disneyland more than any other place on the planet, I have never been to Magic Mountain, Knottsberry Farm, or Lego Land, because, if you're going to be that close to Disneyland, just spend the extra and go to a real park.

I don't go for all the rides anymore, they're still enjoyable but I'm just there to rest, relax, and take in the ambiance. I have sat at the Main Street train station for over three hours just people watching, and I had never noticed they are always having little shows pop up, mostly one of their bands, or just silly crap with the characters. One of the funniest things to watch at Disneyland is a mother with older children, that clearly have never been to an amusement park, and that mom has made an itinerary of what the family will do, when they will do it, where and what they will eat and at what time. I have an annual pass so I just go with the flow, but I remember trying to cram in all the joy of Disneyland in one day and it's not possible. Really, it isn't, that place is huge and to just take in all the fun stuff of just one part of the park will take more than a day, let alone trying to force your way through the lines to get to one of the mountain rides, and fast passes are not a “skip to the front of the line” pass, there is one but it's like thirty grand and a full membership into Club 33. Any of the major attractions of the park are a guaranteed hour or more wait, unless you know some little tricks that I have and will not be sharing. Okay, here's one, go for those rides first thing, most people get breakfast first and then they will jam up the line because they were “smart” in getting that fast pass first. Did you remember to go on the ride first and then get those fast passes for the rest of the family? A lot don't, the dumb shits. I went on Big Thunder Mountain three times in a row because there was no line for the ride but one hell of a long one just for the fast pass, when the line got long I got my pass and came back later. My mom asked where I was, because I had all the passes to go meet back up with them. I told her there was a line, which was true, and since I had the fast passes, she didn't need to know I had already been on that ride, until we were eating our meal before using said passes. With those moms with the plans, they are hilarious, because they are the ones that are going to get pissed off at the end of the day, because their perfect family vacation was ruined and that is why they “HATE” everything Disney.

One of the other people to watch out for is what I call a Jan. Like the second oldest daughter on the Brady Bunch. She's a bitch, because everything is about someone else. A Jan also is not gender based, there are plenty of ales that will clearly fall into the Jan category. I was a Jan once, because my sister has Celiac Disease, she can't eat anything with gluten, and she caused problems when it was time to eat. We had to eat where ever the fuck she wanted to, and I admit, pissed me off to no end and I would make her cry. Because I'm a jerk, I wanted something else, and didn't get my way. That is a Jan, can't get what they want, so “Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!”. During this last trip, the most memorable Jan I encountered was on the train. The train is enjoyable when your feet are tired but you don't want to sit in the hot sun at a table, and it was hot when we were there (113 degrees in the middle of October, with no breeze to move that moisture filled air, is just wrong when it's busy as hell for the whole week). A family of five, the youngest was a boy around eight years old, that was clearly the reason they were getting on the train in the first place, and two daughters, one either graduating from high school or just did, and Jan was a stereotypical fifteen year old. Tina Fey couldn't have written this girl any better for Mean Girls. And Jan did not want to be on the train, and whined about this fact so the rest of us on that attraction could hear her. She wanted to go do something else, mom says no, Jan whines more about how this was torturing her, but dad trying to be heroic jumps in and says he will stay on with the boy, picture the scene from Bambi (“I will train the boy, your mother can't be with us anymore!) if they wanted to go do something else, and then mom shuts down that idea, and Jan plops herself into the seat and loudly exhales, through her nose for complete dramatic effect. I laughed, my dad laughed, my sister smirked, and my mom was clueless to the whole event. On the entire five minute journey to the next station Jan sat there, harrumphing the whole damn time, her mom telling her other kids how great it was that they were together, and how sweet her son was, and Jan would glance sharply toward any of us in that train that chose to laugh at that moment. And as I am a complete asshole that just doesn't care about other people's feelings, I laughed harder and louder, and told my dad all about my theory of the Jan and how we were sitting near one. The girl's mom laughed along with us, knowing it was pissing her daughter off even more. God that lady was great, she even forced her family through the Grand Canyon part of the ride for no other reason other than to piss off that girl, and when the boy said he wanted to go do something else, the woman said okay and then winked when she called her daughter Jan. I wonder if she's related, because that level of assholeness only exists in my genetic code.

On the first Saturday of my vacation this year, my family's annual passes are blacked out on Saturdays, so we were not at Disneyland. So we bummed around Anaheim and the cities around it. And nothing says family outing, like a trip to Lens Crafters. We had those employees laughing for the three hours we were in there, and I doubt they will ever forget us. Or they took our pictures and warned everyone. Either way it was a good day. We also went to other stores, not just harassing the people at a Lens Crafters, even for us that's a bit excessive. We also hit up a Home Town Buffet, I love those places, because I'm what some people call frugal, I call it cheap. All I can eat buffets, at a decent price, good enough for me. While we were eating some guy walked by my table with a knife strapped to his hip. Not a dinner knife, but a small bowie knife, in a holster of leather and something he clearly tried o get to look like kevlar. This guy was not Rambo, I doubt he had ever done a sit up, I can only picture him rolling out of a chair and just landing on his feet was just pure luck. This guy was Cartman from South Park, he was loud mouthed about that knife on his hip and how he was trained in its use, I told my dad that it was all learned through five minute Youtube videos who's production values were brought to us all by Mom's Basement. He bragged about various things, all nerdy items that he read off the internet, and we all waited for him to become yellow like Comicbook Guy. He talked endlessly about everything from Lord of the Rings, to Harry Potter, to Marvel Comics and how he was personally training to become the next Batman. I don't know how he was able to eat food, because he didn't shut up long enough to stuff any of it into his loud mouth. Also you'd think if he wouldn't shut up long enough to eat, he wouldn't be at the close to five hundred pounds he was clearly at. When I got back with another plate of food, he was busy trying to persuade his also hefty friend, whom we can only assume had also bought this guy dinner, to buy him a game at GameStop because his account was frozen there for some “Bullshit reason of them kicking him out of the place because he refused to remove his goddamn knife, and they all know my name is FUCKING GREG!” We made fun of this guy for the whole week, and when one of us did something stupid we blamed FUCKING GREG. We also made fun of him right there at our table, because... We're assholes, that's the only reason I've got anymore for this kind of shit. I picture this guy as a comic book character now; FUCKING GREG and the Misadventures with Mashed Potatoes! FUCKING GREG and the Trouble At The Barn! FUCKING GREG and How He Got His Groove Back! FUCKING GREG could be a smash hit. The newest super hero team up: FUCKING GREG Helps A Jan Off The Train! 

Public Speaking and a Vacuum

I was the quiet kid in school, and never wanted attention to ever be directed toward me. I'm not entirely sure why, and even today, I really don't like to be the center of attention. Now, I'm the guy that will make snide remarks about the stupidity of human beings that sits off to the side so you really don't know who just insulted you. I only go for the center of attention when I need to get a point across. I am extremely good at public speaking, I hate every second that I do that, and inwardly I'm screaming to get away. Back in school, we had to give a speech in front of the class, and this was enough to cause me to start sweating like a mob snitch under a heat lamp in the middle of summer in the middle of Death Valley. Fun fact: I also look like that when eating Jamaican food, like jerk chicken or jerk beef, it's quite hilarious. And that speech for class, turned out to be a contest for something, I don't remember. The subject was on what I considered to be a hero. Others in the class wrote about the police, military, a nurse, some costumed heroes from comic books that took it upon themselves to solve society's fallen virtues by beating up random thugs and hoodlums. And as a comic book nerd, I was down with that being the basis for many a hero, but instead, I wrote about my dad.

He wasn't military, or a cop, or a doctor. My dad didn't go out and save people, he never made headlines in the paper or appeared on TV. My dad was just my dad; he worked recapping truck tires. He worked his ass off so that I could eat three times a day and had clothing to wear and some video games to play. The job he had was harsh on the body and he worked twelve hours a day, every day, and I don't remember him bitching about it either. My dad grew up poor and remembered how his mom got packets of ketchup and mixed them into hot water, for tomato soup. I fully believe that is why he busted his ass for me and my sister, and I have never had to experience that kind of tomato soup. I didn't get the best clothes but we didn't have to get them from Goodwill, the stuff was new, just cheap knockoff brands. I was cool with that, I still have no fashion sense, the stuff fits and isn't a rag, cool, I'll wear it until it is. This doesn't seem like a bragging point for a speech about a hero. And I was just trying to get a passing grade, I was tired of getting detention for having crappy grades. And I made sure that speech was the required two minutes. And damn it, the teacher thought it was awesome and I got an A. But also pushed me along to the next speech stage in a public speaking competition, I knew nothing about.

The second stage for that damn speech contest was to give it in front of the whole school. This school was freaking small too, the seventh and eighth grades were in the same room with the same teacher, and there were still only about twenty of us, so giving a speech in front of the school would only have an audience of probably ninety people. For the quiet kid, that has a very strong fear of public speaking, I'm surprised I didn't piss myself on that stage. Luckily, I am the master of my bladder when public speaking. And I was damn sure I was not moving on in the contest, and didn't add on the required amount of props for that round. I did have my dad come up to the stage, which people clapped for, and used him as my one and only prop, and gave my speech, word for word, again to a larger crowd. I was extremely happy that I did not move on, the next speech was in front of the city council and then probably on to the state level, in front of a stadium of people, I don't know, and I would have crapped myself, just to get out of that. And knowing my goddamn luck, I would have been given a standing ovation for it.

Through high school, I didn't have to get in front of the class to many times to speak. At least that is faded from memory, so it must not have been anything special. But in college, I found out that several classes required public speaking. Why would they torture people with that, I don't have a job that requires me to speak in front of hundreds of people, it's not a skill I need. But I got through those with flying colors, got a couple friends out of one of those speeches, and the professor telling me that the next one would not be needed. That speech on what I learned in a world's religion class was just a rant on how all of them were wrong, for fifteen minutes. No notes, just me bashing on the whole thing. It was quite fun, seeing everyone squirm in their seats, like how my skin felt.

The reason I bring up the public speaking is for my grandpa, we had his memorial on what would have been his eighty-third birthday. My mom and her brother told stupid stories he told to us, many times over, for their eulogies, which they got laughs for. And when my uncle, he was the emcee for the whole shindig, said if anyone was willing to come up and tell everyone a story or a memory of my grandpa, now was the time. I stood and got up there before everyone. My grandpa was a well liked person in town. The man never met a stranger, he saw a new friend in the making, or as I would put it, fresh meat for his stories. I got up to that podium and saw just how many people were in that building, the sign for max capacity showed two hundred-fifty people and since there were people standing all over the place and outside, the estimated count was close to six or seven hundred. I said hello, and told everyone who I was, putting emphasis on that I was the first born grand kid, because not everyone knew who I even was, and being a first born should be treated as the godly being we are. Afterward, I was told that a good friend of my grandpa, one he had from high school, was kinda pissed off that I forced my way up there, but if I had waited, no matter how many times I said Dune's Bene Geserit litany against fear (Fear is the mind killer. I shall face my fear and let it pass through me. And when it passes, only I shall remain) was going to get my ass up there, after anyone else. My dad sat there in the front with my mom, shocked that I, the quiet, non-public speaker, stood there in front of that crowd telling my favorite memory of me, and my grandpa. And here it is.

When I was a small kid, possibly kindergarten or first grade, both my parents worked, leaving me and my little sister to the care of my grandma a few times a week. Money was tough then so a babysitter was out of the question. I watched cartoons on the thirteen channels we had on TV then, every day. Tom and Jerry and the Flintstones repeats on TBS around lunch time, then nothing good on until 3PM, and that was Ducktales and Rescue Rangers. Every day was the same thing, and at my grandparent's house was no different to me, except for a wonderful green reclining chair. The chair was one of the best seats I have ever sat in, and nothing since has even come close to that thing. I believe it was made by some deity that just wanted to be comfortable. I would sit in that chair and watch my toons, with some snack my grandma thought was good for me. And everyday, my grandpa would get home from work, drop his two ton tool box outside the door, no one but him ever lifted that damn thing because it had belonged to Thor before he decided he only needed the hammer. My grandpa was worthy of the power to lift Thor's screwdrivers and wrenches and sockets.

After the thundering boom, of that box hitting the earth, my grandpa would come in to watch the news on KABC. And if someone was watching the TV first, he would kick that person out of that chair, and change the channel. To kick me out of the chair, he would try to sit on me first, and you know, after the first thirty or so times, you'd think the joke would just get old, and get new material? My grandpa either thought that was a great joke, which is true for several other jokes he told, but I think he just thought of only sitting down in that chair, and only me screeching stopped him from doing so, and then he played it off as a joke. But any complaint about watching something on TV first was countered with, “It's my TV.” Every time, he used that line to trump anything else, he did this when my mom was a kid too, when there were only the three channels. And missing an episode of whatever the cartoon was, was devastating to a six year old. But I lost each, and every time. Tears didn't sway the man, he told me to buck up, and still watched the news. I viewed this as a war. I wanted my cartoons.

My first attack worked to perfection, I was the only one that knew how to set up the video game player, with out the use of the instructions, which I made sure the old man couldn't find. So, when he came in, and just changed the channel, all he got was static, and he'd leave the room to go work on tying flies for fishing. Score one for the kid. A few years later, talking sixth grade here, my grandparents got a new TV, one with an SAP function, so I switched it to that for his news. I forgot that my stubborn streak came from that man, and he sat there pissed off and watched the news in Spanish, not knowing a single word of that language, out of spite.

One of the other things that happened every day when I was a small kid would be my grandma's constant vacuuming. I believe she had made a deal with the devil that not only included that wonderful chair and keeping her youthful looks. My grandma is nearly eighty years old and she stopped aging when she got silvery gray hair. My mom barely looks younger than her. And if she did sell her soul and only had to vacuum, the devil got ripped off. Or it is a form of OCD, she likes to run that vacuum. And normally she would start her vacuum run in the family room working her way to the back of the house where the bedrooms were. Everyday, the same pattern, until the one time. No one knows why, but she started in reverse one day, and when she got to the family room, I gave up watching TV and just played with my Lego knock offs. My grandpa got home, and went on as usual, and he just sat down in the chair, not paying attention to where I was, and this is the reason I think he played that off as a joke. He turned on that TV, changed it to channel seven and all anyone could hear was that loud back and forth running of the vacuum. My grandpa was irritated, being foiled once again from watching the news out of Los Angeles, and he saw me just sitting there on the floor playing with my toys. He turned to me and said, “Go tell Ma,” short for grandma, I've called her that since I was two years old,” to turn off that Goddamn vacuum.” I use the phrase “goddamn” all the time because of my grandpa, it was his favorite phrase, and I just carry it on as a legacy. And when he told me that, I got up, because I was a good grandson. I went into the family room, and upon seeing her grandson waiting to talk to her, my grandma turned off the vacuum. And I told her what I was told to do, I said, “Ma, Pa told me to tell you to 'turn off that goddamn vacuum.'” Word for word, because that's what was asked of me.

My grandma constantly yelled at my grandpa for swearing around the grandchildren. And to this day, I don't know what caused me to stay in that room as my red-faced grandmother went into that room and promptly yelled at my grandpa. I don't know what happened in that room, I'm sure my grandpa got swatted and smacked and yelled at and various other things that my six year old mind could not wrap itself around. But a couple seconds later, my grandpa rushed out of that room and into his work shop area to work on those fishing flies. My grandma came back out and put the vacuum away, I'd guess she was too pissed off to finish. And I went back into the TV room, and to my cartoons. Checkmate.