I'm back in Florida and I've digressed back to being so young. So many memories there, I'll have to bounce out every now and then just to keep the variety going in these memory posts. When you're 5 years old, which is how old I was when we left Florida, every day is a lifetime. Every moment I experienced at that age seemed so vital. They seem clearer than my memories of last week.
My second dad was in Nam. He went a little crazy and turned to the bottle for sanity or for a good time. My mother was still, at this time, also enjoying the needed drink or two but working hard to quit. She has now been sober over 25 years. I'm proud of my mom.
Anyway, I'm out in a field with step dad #1 and he has his rifle. He's teaching me all about how to use it and how to behave around people with guns. I'm around 4 years old. The gun looks about as mysterious as the wheat field, which I'm still not used to seeing.
This is the same field where I had previously narrowly missed stepping on a cottonmouth snake, saved only by my mother grabbing my arm and telling me briskly 'HALT!' I hovered, my right foot stuck in the air, over the black viper. The snake then curved and wove itself back into the wheat, unaware that I was lingering above it. I resumed walking, unaware that my life could have ended. My mother was a little more shaken.
So, Nam Dad is pointing his gun to the lightly clouded blue mass that he calls 'sky', aiming at the clouds. "Bet you I can punch a hole right through one of those clouds." He says. I hesitate to disagree and decide that he probably can. "Stand behind me! Always stand behind someone who is firing a gun." I rush behind him, edging out only a little to view the cloud, as I expect it will burst in a flare of white smoke and vanish on impact. He holds the rifle out high and looks around back at me, so low by his feet. He shuffles in circles, making me scurry to stay behind him. He laughs.
Then he shoots.
The echo is intense. I don't even see the cloud he was aiming for anymore, I'm so dizzied by the bang of the rifle. The world spins chaotically for an instant and I steady myself, checking to make sure I'm still behind him. He could fire again. But he brings the gun down, looks down at me and laughs. We start to head back along the path. Several steps later he stops me and points to the ground. "You see that?"
I look down on the edge of the path and see a lizard. Not an especially large one but, to my childish eyes, it looks big enough to get me concerned by what my dad is pointing out.
The lizard is dead. Not just dead, but dead with a bullet lodged in it's head.
It lays there as if it had been casually scurrying back into the wheat when an unexpected bullet fell from the sky and landed right in it's cranium. Squish. Pinned to the ground. Dead.
I look up at Nam Dad. He raises his eyes to the sky and back down at me. Then he raises his finger up in the air. "Don't you ever fire a gun straight into the air."
Needless to say, I'm convinced of the danger that gravity poses when mixed with small, heavy, fast moving cylinders of lead. I stay there, squatted to the ground, with the lizard for a second, examining it, covered in dust. A little bit of blood has leaked from it's head and merged with the dusty path. The lizard is a little skinny; a little emaciated; a little too dead.
How much earlier in the day had my dad come out here and stuck that bullet in the lizard's head before taking me out to this field? Did he kill the lizard himself or just find it dead and get the idea to teach me about Newton in his own way? I imagine him, pistol in one hand and a squirmy lizard in the other, pinning the creature to ground, digging the barrel into it's forehead. No, he must have used a hammer to put the bullet in, or pushed it in by hand. These things puzzled me for a while on the silent walk back to the house.
To this day, I tell myself that this event was staged. But I still don't think that was a blank he fired straight into the air.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
Dream: Cactus Tree and a Broken Bridge
"I wouldn't want to be under that cactus tree right now." I point off into the distance where a giant tree is flailing wildly as if a mobile beast having a freak-out seizure. The tree is the size and shape of massive maple tree but it's branches are bulbous cactus limbs, thorny and heavy.
The entire landscape is moving in speed cinematography. In the distance sits a farm house, surrounded by empty wheat fields. The cactus tree is just out of reach, lurching from back to front, smashing it's great arms into the ground.
"It's not moving that fast really." The tree begins to migrate toward us. It crawls on the ground like a Stomphia anemone, fleeing it's prey. We stand firm and the tree creeps passed us, along the road.
"No, look closer, the large branches are moving slowly, when turned down to real-time but their are those fractal appendages, thorns or something, that are pulsing at the ground like lightning. It's just tearing up the ground. A fierce wind blows overhead, bending the other trees in the distance. "It looks like a thunderstorm is approaching." I warn with a finger pointed to the sky.
"But it's all sunny and there isn't a drop of rain." My companion protests.
"Around here, that doesn't matter." Thunder cracks and raindrops cover the land.
Now I know I'm in a dream.
In the farmhouse, a man is showing us models of bridges. One of the models is made of strange shapes in three different colors. "Imagine, if you will, that one of the elements used to make this bridge suddenly becomes insoluble."
"Insoluble?" I ask
"Yes," he pokes at the yellow parts of the bridge with the tip of a pencil, bursting the pieces of the bridge. The bridge tilts as it looses two crucial foundation points on one side. The other end of the bridge is sticking up in the air now at a steep angle and suddenly the bridge is life size. I'm outside looking at it from the water below. So many cars are falling off of the bridge and people are screaming.
There is a tsunami coming. The earth is shaking and I can see waves smashing against the bridge. I run, trudging through the water, attempting to get to the mountain on the other side of the lake. Higher ground.
When I get to the mountain, I am holding a tray with three pieces of sushi on it. I'm ravenous and trying to eat the sushi while runnig away from the chaos. Some people are following me and for some reason I see fit to evade them, biting at my tray in an attempt to snatch a sushi ball. I'm holding chopsticks in my right hand but I don't use them. The terrain is rocky and uneven so I concentrate on keeping balance while running around the corners and climbing up the walls. Soon all the pieces of sushi are gone.
On the other side of the mountain, I am walking down a residential street. A man is approaching me and I know he must be stopped at all costs. Grabbing up a bottle from the sidewalk, I bend in a threatening, "I'm going to throw this at your head" kinda way. He ducks, I threaten, he hucks, I adjust my aim and heave the bottle hard at his arm. It bounces back to me like a boomerang and I immediately smash it against his face. He falls to the ground, dead.
"My oh my, looks like you killed the mayor." A man chewing on a strand of wheat looks at me with his arms folded, resting himself against a storefront. "Been wait'n for some-un ta do that. They're gonna be after you though. More of 'em. You should run that-a-way." He points down the road toward a massive shopping mall.
In the mall, I see many security personnel, all scrambling from earpiece orders. I dodge them methodically, blending in with the crowds, shifting escalators and dropping into elevators to miss the searching men. Hiding between some display plants, I see two security guards meeting.
"He discarded the chop-sticks. We've lost the trace on him." One says to the other, holding his earpiece.
"I duck down to the elevator, pressing the bottom floor. When I get there, I rub all the buttons to Go and run out. I leap off a terrace onto the very bottom floor where many citizens are moving in and out of a restroom waiting area. There are payphones and candy machines and benches for waiting friends. I sit on a bench.
"Hey man, they will find you here." This from an aggressive looking neo-punk twenty-something who is moving too close to me for casual comfort in a stranger. "You need to go out that door and meet up with the others." I thank him for his advice and move toward the exit.
Cautiously, I peer out and around for a trap. Seeing none, I bolt through the opening and into the bright daylight, just in time to hear my baby stir from sleep.
"Can you take her?" My wife turns away from us. I take the baby and rock us both back to sleep.
"He discarded the chop-sticks. We've lost the trace on him." One says to the other, holding his earpiece.
"I duck down to the elevator, pressing the bottom floor. When I get there, I rub all the buttons to Go and run out. I leap off a terrace onto the very bottom floor where many citizens are moving in and out of a restroom waiting area. There are payphones and candy machines and benches for waiting friends. I sit on a bench.
"Hey man, they will find you here." This from an aggressive looking neo-punk twenty-something who is moving too close to me for casual comfort in a stranger. "You need to go out that door and meet up with the others." I thank him for his advice and move toward the exit.
Cautiously, I peer out and around for a trap. Seeing none, I bolt through the opening and into the bright daylight, just in time to hear my baby stir from sleep.
"Can you take her?" My wife turns away from us. I take the baby and rock us both back to sleep.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Classified: Nemesis Wanted
Married, 29yo. father of 1, Sleep Deprivation Ninja, who enjoys trans-dimensional walks on the beach, seeks Nemesis who is willing to join the occasional bar brawl, write snarky emails and hit on my wife (you don't stand a chance). Applicant must be willing to shed a tear at my funeral. If your Archenemy attempts to take your life, SDN will intervene. Nemesis must be willing to reciprocate action if ever needed (but not likely).
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Movie: Hellboy 2
Since my mother was in town over the weekend, we went out to a movie. I didn't realize how cool simply going to a theater really is until I had a baby. Once you get passed the notion that your child isn't going to die if you leave the house for a couple of hours, it's pretty fun.
So we get to the theater and only 4 other people are there. It's Sunday night at 22:00* so it's expected but I still release a mental shout in the form of SCORE!!! A young couple sits in the back and an older pair is in the middle. We sit close to the front.
The old guy in the middle keeps making crass and lame jokes about the commercials that play while we are waiting for the movie to start. I don't give him a hard time because I really hate those commercials. It pisses me off that they show them at all but we are at one of the discount theaters that only shows movies that were cycled out of the good theaters at least a month ago. Tickets are $3 each** so I can't complain here. Someday I may crack at one of the theaters that charges over $10 each though...another adventure.
The trailers start and the old guy is at it again, he's a little loud and obnoxious and I'm bottling my ninja gusto, preparing for the moment his crass ass shouts something stupid during the feature presentation. I can feel it in my black ninja blood that there's going to be trouble tonight.
Ten minutes into the movie, another couple walks in. The man is quite overweight and as I size him up, I start to wonder if I could throw him in a fight. I don't think this is a ninja thing exclusively. Guys can vouch, yeah? And this applies to heterosexual male thinking only. I'm sure the train of thought is different when you are attracted to men. But the train of thought experienced by heterosexual guys, when meeting another guy for the first time, runs mainly along the same track, stopping very briefly at the following destinations:
1. Is he a bleeder?
2. He looks like a (nice|decent guy)|asshole|badass|poser|{insert other superficial character judgment}
3. How far could I throw him?
4. If I'm going for height, where's the best handle on this guy? What about distance?
5. Is he more attractive than I am?
6. Is he betting on speed or strength to save him from me hurling this chair at his head?
We have a completely different rail line dedicated to first thoughts at the time of meeting a woman. It's itinerary goes something like this:
1. Would I have sex with her?
2. Would I have sex with her in an apocalyptic scenario?
3. Is she the hottest girl here?
3. Would she have sex with me?
2. Would she have sex with me in an apocalyptic scenario?
4. Does she think I'm more attractive than that guy over there?
5. Is he a bleeder...
....
This is where the two train tracks meet in a giant, deadly criss-cross. You have to be very careful because collisions can occur if you get overwhelmed.
But alas, I digress so much. So this guy does look like a bleeder, he doesn't look like a particularly nice or bad guy. I give him the thumbs sideways in that department. I'm not sure how high or far I can throw him. Attraction to the ladies isn't an issue, not the least of which is due to the fact that I'm here with my hot wife and none of the other ladies can even afford a ticket to lady train stop #3. I suspect hes betting on the large tub of popcorn to save him from a chair being lobbed at his head. Either that or he just trusts the benevolent nature of mankind. I'm not a bad guy. I don't throw chairs at people's heads for no reason. So maybe he's safe.
I can't even see the lady behind him, so she doesn't hop on the train. Besides, the movie is going; you think I have time to size up everyone who enters a theater after the lights go down?
Hellboy 2 kicks some serious ass. It reminds me of growing up in the projects--foul and beautiful creatures alike, all trying to wipe out humanity.
Halfway through the film, I hear really heavy breathing. Massive breathing. I start to wonder if I need to shift hyperplanes and kill something that's trying to eat its way through the fabric of space. As I look back, I see that it's just the newbie with his eyes shut, his head tilted back and his mouth flapping incessantly in a snore pattern. While I watch, in utter shock, he begins to snore, snort, sniffle and snuff, in random order and volume. He's a steam engine ready to blow, rubber lids blocking his air valves and old dried crude cluttering the pipes.
"Hey, you can sleep at home, dude!" I know, sometimes I refer to people as 'dude'. Don't ask me why.
"Ohhuhnnk! guh...." He's awake now, staring at the screen like he didn't even hear me.
OK, I think, back to the show.
Ten minutes later, the snoring is back. It's chair time. I grab the free seat to my right and heave it back toward the guy. I make good height but the man has already woken up from the sound of the metal base being ripped from the ground. He lifts the jumbo popcorn bucket to his face to block the theater chair. I'm surprised at the resilience of the butter tub as it ricochets the chair three rows forward.
"Hey, what gives?"
"Your snoring gives, bub." I'm at his side and I shove my hands deep into his stomach, aiming for a good organ to grab onto for leverage. Picking up big guys is tricky and best achieved internally.
Once I have a good hold, I lean back and with the prowess of an Olympic discus thrower, I go for distance, sending this guy toward the exit door. He turns out to be lighter than I had estimated as he makes it all the way out of the theater, the exit door slamming open on impact and swinging shut with a locking click as he vanishes into the parking lot. His girlfriend, who is obviously the disheartened victim of an internet dating service, appears relieved and runs away quietly, spryly exiting through the main entrance.
The old guy cheers and his wife smacks him aside the back of his head.
"Shut up, Steve!" She resumes snacking and enjoying her movie. So do we all.
* Ninjas prefer the 24-hour time format but we don't call it military time because it's been around centuries longer than any military. Ninja history goes all the way back to the beginning of time when we measured moments in picoseconds and those incalculable fractions of time allotted to the passing breath one takes at the moment of death.
** Cheap tickets is one of the advantages of not being able to see movies when they come out (due to babysitting difficulties). Another advantage is that my Netflix queue is the triple digits. I will never EVER run out of something interesting to watch. Not that I ever have the time.
So we get to the theater and only 4 other people are there. It's Sunday night at 22:00* so it's expected but I still release a mental shout in the form of SCORE!!! A young couple sits in the back and an older pair is in the middle. We sit close to the front.
The old guy in the middle keeps making crass and lame jokes about the commercials that play while we are waiting for the movie to start. I don't give him a hard time because I really hate those commercials. It pisses me off that they show them at all but we are at one of the discount theaters that only shows movies that were cycled out of the good theaters at least a month ago. Tickets are $3 each** so I can't complain here. Someday I may crack at one of the theaters that charges over $10 each though...another adventure.
The trailers start and the old guy is at it again, he's a little loud and obnoxious and I'm bottling my ninja gusto, preparing for the moment his crass ass shouts something stupid during the feature presentation. I can feel it in my black ninja blood that there's going to be trouble tonight.
Ten minutes into the movie, another couple walks in. The man is quite overweight and as I size him up, I start to wonder if I could throw him in a fight. I don't think this is a ninja thing exclusively. Guys can vouch, yeah? And this applies to heterosexual male thinking only. I'm sure the train of thought is different when you are attracted to men. But the train of thought experienced by heterosexual guys, when meeting another guy for the first time, runs mainly along the same track, stopping very briefly at the following destinations:
1. Is he a bleeder?
2. He looks like a (nice|decent guy)|asshole|badass|poser|{insert other superficial character judgment}
3. How far could I throw him?
4. If I'm going for height, where's the best handle on this guy? What about distance?
5. Is he more attractive than I am?
6. Is he betting on speed or strength to save him from me hurling this chair at his head?
We have a completely different rail line dedicated to first thoughts at the time of meeting a woman. It's itinerary goes something like this:
1. Would I have sex with her?
2. Would I have sex with her in an apocalyptic scenario?
3. Is she the hottest girl here?
3. Would she have sex with me?
2. Would she have sex with me in an apocalyptic scenario?
4. Does she think I'm more attractive than that guy over there?
5. Is he a bleeder...
....
This is where the two train tracks meet in a giant, deadly criss-cross. You have to be very careful because collisions can occur if you get overwhelmed.
But alas, I digress so much. So this guy does look like a bleeder, he doesn't look like a particularly nice or bad guy. I give him the thumbs sideways in that department. I'm not sure how high or far I can throw him. Attraction to the ladies isn't an issue, not the least of which is due to the fact that I'm here with my hot wife and none of the other ladies can even afford a ticket to lady train stop #3. I suspect hes betting on the large tub of popcorn to save him from a chair being lobbed at his head. Either that or he just trusts the benevolent nature of mankind. I'm not a bad guy. I don't throw chairs at people's heads for no reason. So maybe he's safe.
I can't even see the lady behind him, so she doesn't hop on the train. Besides, the movie is going; you think I have time to size up everyone who enters a theater after the lights go down?
Hellboy 2 kicks some serious ass. It reminds me of growing up in the projects--foul and beautiful creatures alike, all trying to wipe out humanity.
Halfway through the film, I hear really heavy breathing. Massive breathing. I start to wonder if I need to shift hyperplanes and kill something that's trying to eat its way through the fabric of space. As I look back, I see that it's just the newbie with his eyes shut, his head tilted back and his mouth flapping incessantly in a snore pattern. While I watch, in utter shock, he begins to snore, snort, sniffle and snuff, in random order and volume. He's a steam engine ready to blow, rubber lids blocking his air valves and old dried crude cluttering the pipes.
"Hey, you can sleep at home, dude!" I know, sometimes I refer to people as 'dude'. Don't ask me why.
"Ohhuhnnk! guh...." He's awake now, staring at the screen like he didn't even hear me.
OK, I think, back to the show.
Ten minutes later, the snoring is back. It's chair time. I grab the free seat to my right and heave it back toward the guy. I make good height but the man has already woken up from the sound of the metal base being ripped from the ground. He lifts the jumbo popcorn bucket to his face to block the theater chair. I'm surprised at the resilience of the butter tub as it ricochets the chair three rows forward.
"Hey, what gives?"
"Your snoring gives, bub." I'm at his side and I shove my hands deep into his stomach, aiming for a good organ to grab onto for leverage. Picking up big guys is tricky and best achieved internally.
Once I have a good hold, I lean back and with the prowess of an Olympic discus thrower, I go for distance, sending this guy toward the exit door. He turns out to be lighter than I had estimated as he makes it all the way out of the theater, the exit door slamming open on impact and swinging shut with a locking click as he vanishes into the parking lot. His girlfriend, who is obviously the disheartened victim of an internet dating service, appears relieved and runs away quietly, spryly exiting through the main entrance.
The old guy cheers and his wife smacks him aside the back of his head.
"Shut up, Steve!" She resumes snacking and enjoying her movie. So do we all.
* Ninjas prefer the 24-hour time format but we don't call it military time because it's been around centuries longer than any military. Ninja history goes all the way back to the beginning of time when we measured moments in picoseconds and those incalculable fractions of time allotted to the passing breath one takes at the moment of death.
** Cheap tickets is one of the advantages of not being able to see movies when they come out (due to babysitting difficulties). Another advantage is that my Netflix queue is the triple digits. I will never EVER run out of something interesting to watch. Not that I ever have the time.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Whatup iPhone
Dear iPhone,
I know you're a badass phone with all sorts of apps that I couldn't live without, but really, do you have to make my baby look like a kaleidoscopic alien so often?
P.S. I still love you.
I know you're a badass phone with all sorts of apps that I couldn't live without, but really, do you have to make my baby look like a kaleidoscopic alien so often?
P.S. I still love you.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
100 Word Challenge: Blend
Now flying through the clouds, splashing into the sea or touching the ground running I'm always on the move, allowing the world to define itself. I try not to intrude.
Control blends into release, consciousness into subconsciousness and the event stream is uncontrollable.
Now I fall asleep.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Exploits of Ninja and Child - #8 - Recess
Daddy, why are you going to work today, it's Saturday?
Well, little baby girl, I've got deadlines and I need to get some things done at the office. Times are tough and I need to work extra hard to make sure my job will still exist in the coming months.
Daddy, what would you do if you lost your job because of the economic recession?
Well, little baby girl, I've got deadlines and I need to get some things done at the office. Times are tough and I need to work extra hard to make sure my job will still exist in the coming months.
Daddy, what would you do if you lost your job because of the economic recession?
Well, since I wouldn't have to go to work, I would just stay home and hang out with you and mom everyday. Of course, we wouldn't have any money to do things.
But daddy, we've got year long passes to the Zoo and the Science Center and the Aquarium and there are so many other things to do that are free like singing and dancing and listing to music and smelling the spices in the kitchen and walking around the city to hear the things that are there and you can write and play your accordion and we can walk around Greenlake and laugh and play.
That's true; we could keep pretty well occupied. But eventually, we wouldn't be able to pay our mortgage.
Daddy, I hope the economy crashes just for a year.
Me too, sweet pea, me too.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Ninja as Child - #8 - Jon Bon Jovi
"You don't know who Jon Bon Jovi is!?" This came from Izaak, the 7-year-old kid standing in front of me, wearing a leather jacket with a big "Jon Bon Jovi" spread across the back.
I had, of course, in my ignorance, dared to ask him, "Who is Jon Bon Jovi?"
Queue music:
We are all standing in line, awaiting our release from our second grade classroom, into the open embrace of recess. I look at Izaak who has only half way turned around to give me the same face the Fonz would use to tell someone, "hey, it's cool, I'm cool enough for the two of us."
Izaak is cool enough for the two of us. He is a certifiable badass. This kid knows everything that is cool. He's slick with the ladies. He can always win those toys from the stupid claw machines at the video arcade. Every. Freaking. Time. Sometimes we go to the video arcade at the mall just so he can prove it.
So, I'm standing there, turning red with embarrassment that I don't have a clue who this Bon Jovi guy is and Izaak saves me. He leans in and whispers, "he's a singer, man."
"Oh. Oh, yeah, I knew that." I'm such a smart-ass. Izaak shakes his head, totally not falling for my ruse. "You going to Mike's birthday party tonight?"
"Yes I am." He says and then he throws his hands into the air in a badass biker style "ROCK" just as the bell rings. For a split second it looks like he made the bells ring just by throwing his arms up and giving the signal. I marvel until the vanishing line catches up with my position.
Children pour out into the play yard like a bag full of marbles spilling out onto the floor. Direction is meaningless. Vectors change based only on the terrain. Individuals coalesce into groups, arbitrarily merged based on location, rather than social status. The hordes of children indulge only in fun.
Mike's birthday party that night begins at Angelo's Pizza. There are about eight of us running amuck, pizza in one hand and a fistful of quarters for the video games in the other. Several very large pizza's are quickly devoured. My stack of quarters lasts me about fifteen minutes. Some other kids have more and I watch as they play. Izaak has been playing for over thirty minutes on the quarter he borrowed from Mike. Badass. Within the hour, all the quarters are gone and Izaak has killed the game. This place is spent. But the night is still young. The party continues at Mike's house, where we will all slumber over, living the fort-building, pillow-fighting, video-game addicted paradise.
When we get to Mike's house, I look around at all my cohorts and something isn't right. "Where's Izaak?"
Mike shrugs, "I don't know... I think he had to take off or something."
"Man that sucks." I'm a little hurt. How could he ditch out on the best part. A sleepover! That's just crazy. I'm sad for a brief moment but little boys with their toys and games are easily distracted and fooled. We all forget about Izaak.
The next morning, my mother picks me up and she asks me how it went. "Oh, we made this awesome fort and played video games and ate lots of junk food and it was fun. I wish Izaak was there. Do you know why he didn't come?"
My mother stares out the window of the car as we drive away. She looks unusually distant. "I drove Izaak home last night from the pizza place." Then she looks at me with a pained expression like she is about to cry.
"Why, what happened?" I'm scared for Izaak. Did he get injured or something? Did he have some kind of emergency?
"Mike's mother told me she didn't want him there because Izaak is black." She looks at me. I'm at a total loss for words. "She said, I don't want that negro boy staying at my house with my son. That's what she told me. So I took Izaak and I drove him home and I explained it to his parents.... I'm so sorry." She turns back to the road.
"Mom! Why didn't you tell me? Why did you let me go there? I wouldn't have gone if I knew that." I start to get angry, brooding with my arms folded tight.
"I'm sorry, I should have told you. I regret not telling you."
I can't stay mad at my mother. I stare out the window and I imagine that I am Izaak, sitting here in the passenger seat, being driven home from the party. Did he cry? I wonder, did this happen to him a lot? I had no idea someone would ever do something like that to him. Why? WTF? Why?
Fuck. Now I'm fighting the tears just remembering this shit. And yes, ninjas do cry, but it only happens when a ninja relives some of the tragic memories that eventually combined to create the need to become Ninja. I can still choke a Jabberwock with my pinky.
Izaak just keeps cool. On Monday, in class, he just shruggs like the Fonz when Mike and the others ask him what happened to him. "Hey, I just had to go, you know." Izaak didn't miss a beat. Mike doesn't even know his own mother is a racist bitch.
I look around the classroom. Tiffany has red hair. Brian's hair is black. I have extreme blue eyes, about which the teacher makes frequent creepy comments. I'm the only one in the class with eyes this blue. Tiffany is the only one with red hair. Izaak has really dark skin. It's darker than peter's and in a different way. Everyone's hair is different. Everyone's eyes are different. Our noses are different, our chins, our height, the size of our hands. Everyone has a different skin tone. The only thing we see in each other is difference. And difference is cool.
This classroom is full of hippie children. Most of our parents were hippies. Some still are. We live in a little town full of natural food stores and local bars where everybody knows your name. In this town of monotonous living, conformity is tantamount to wearing a shirt that says 'Dull'. So we all look at each other for the differences that make us cool, all trying not to blend in with anyone else. Until we get around to learning about discrimination in school, none of us has any idea the world is full of such things. Sure, we notice we are all different but by what scale could we even dare to label any of these traits better than others? The only thing that matters is that you know who the fuck Jon Bon Jovi is. That's definitive.
Many years later, I'm about 15 years old now, and I'm at the grocery store getting a bunch of stuff for my mom. When it's my turn in line, I unload a full cart of food onto the conveyor belt and when I look up, I recognize the woman at the register. It's Mike's mom. She's older but she still looks the same. I remember Izaak and as I think about him, recognition dawns in her face too. She knows who I am. She knows I was friends with both her son and with Izaak. I think about screaming at her or just casually asking her what it's like to hate people like Izaak for such stupid reasons. I look behind me and see that the line is long. Everyone is waiting for my heap of goods to be purchased so they can take my place and interact with this woman.
No, not this woman. I look at the ground and lick my lips, clenching my fists, ready to bash her face in while she's calmly beep-beeping my groceries. I look up at her and slowly shake my head. I can't do this. I can't make this transaction.
I leave. I just walk out. The pile of groceries sits on the conveyor belt and yields to no one. She doesn't say anything. I know as I leave the store that she is just staring at my back and she knows exactly why. It's not much resolution but at 15, I am not yet a ninja. I'm still just a little boy who doesn't understand the world. Not even a little.
Damn. That was the saddest stroll down memory lane I've taken in a while. I'm getting all of these memories written so I can remember them when I'm old and so my daughter can have an idea what the world was like when I was a kid. I had forgotten when I started this project that so many of the memories that stuck are pretty shitty. I've got a million more. But that's why I eventually cracked and became Ninja. Time for something to laugh at. This seems relevant:
I had, of course, in my ignorance, dared to ask him, "Who is Jon Bon Jovi?"
Queue music:
We are all standing in line, awaiting our release from our second grade classroom, into the open embrace of recess. I look at Izaak who has only half way turned around to give me the same face the Fonz would use to tell someone, "hey, it's cool, I'm cool enough for the two of us."
Izaak is cool enough for the two of us. He is a certifiable badass. This kid knows everything that is cool. He's slick with the ladies. He can always win those toys from the stupid claw machines at the video arcade. Every. Freaking. Time. Sometimes we go to the video arcade at the mall just so he can prove it.
So, I'm standing there, turning red with embarrassment that I don't have a clue who this Bon Jovi guy is and Izaak saves me. He leans in and whispers, "he's a singer, man."
"Oh. Oh, yeah, I knew that." I'm such a smart-ass. Izaak shakes his head, totally not falling for my ruse. "You going to Mike's birthday party tonight?"
"Yes I am." He says and then he throws his hands into the air in a badass biker style "ROCK" just as the bell rings. For a split second it looks like he made the bells ring just by throwing his arms up and giving the signal. I marvel until the vanishing line catches up with my position.
Children pour out into the play yard like a bag full of marbles spilling out onto the floor. Direction is meaningless. Vectors change based only on the terrain. Individuals coalesce into groups, arbitrarily merged based on location, rather than social status. The hordes of children indulge only in fun.
Mike's birthday party that night begins at Angelo's Pizza. There are about eight of us running amuck, pizza in one hand and a fistful of quarters for the video games in the other. Several very large pizza's are quickly devoured. My stack of quarters lasts me about fifteen minutes. Some other kids have more and I watch as they play. Izaak has been playing for over thirty minutes on the quarter he borrowed from Mike. Badass. Within the hour, all the quarters are gone and Izaak has killed the game. This place is spent. But the night is still young. The party continues at Mike's house, where we will all slumber over, living the fort-building, pillow-fighting, video-game addicted paradise.
When we get to Mike's house, I look around at all my cohorts and something isn't right. "Where's Izaak?"
Mike shrugs, "I don't know... I think he had to take off or something."
"Man that sucks." I'm a little hurt. How could he ditch out on the best part. A sleepover! That's just crazy. I'm sad for a brief moment but little boys with their toys and games are easily distracted and fooled. We all forget about Izaak.
The next morning, my mother picks me up and she asks me how it went. "Oh, we made this awesome fort and played video games and ate lots of junk food and it was fun. I wish Izaak was there. Do you know why he didn't come?"
My mother stares out the window of the car as we drive away. She looks unusually distant. "I drove Izaak home last night from the pizza place." Then she looks at me with a pained expression like she is about to cry.
"Why, what happened?" I'm scared for Izaak. Did he get injured or something? Did he have some kind of emergency?
"Mike's mother told me she didn't want him there because Izaak is black." She looks at me. I'm at a total loss for words. "She said, I don't want that negro boy staying at my house with my son. That's what she told me. So I took Izaak and I drove him home and I explained it to his parents.... I'm so sorry." She turns back to the road.
"Mom! Why didn't you tell me? Why did you let me go there? I wouldn't have gone if I knew that." I start to get angry, brooding with my arms folded tight.
"I'm sorry, I should have told you. I regret not telling you."
I can't stay mad at my mother. I stare out the window and I imagine that I am Izaak, sitting here in the passenger seat, being driven home from the party. Did he cry? I wonder, did this happen to him a lot? I had no idea someone would ever do something like that to him. Why? WTF? Why?
Fuck. Now I'm fighting the tears just remembering this shit. And yes, ninjas do cry, but it only happens when a ninja relives some of the tragic memories that eventually combined to create the need to become Ninja. I can still choke a Jabberwock with my pinky.
Izaak just keeps cool. On Monday, in class, he just shruggs like the Fonz when Mike and the others ask him what happened to him. "Hey, I just had to go, you know." Izaak didn't miss a beat. Mike doesn't even know his own mother is a racist bitch.
I look around the classroom. Tiffany has red hair. Brian's hair is black. I have extreme blue eyes, about which the teacher makes frequent creepy comments. I'm the only one in the class with eyes this blue. Tiffany is the only one with red hair. Izaak has really dark skin. It's darker than peter's and in a different way. Everyone's hair is different. Everyone's eyes are different. Our noses are different, our chins, our height, the size of our hands. Everyone has a different skin tone. The only thing we see in each other is difference. And difference is cool.
This classroom is full of hippie children. Most of our parents were hippies. Some still are. We live in a little town full of natural food stores and local bars where everybody knows your name. In this town of monotonous living, conformity is tantamount to wearing a shirt that says 'Dull'. So we all look at each other for the differences that make us cool, all trying not to blend in with anyone else. Until we get around to learning about discrimination in school, none of us has any idea the world is full of such things. Sure, we notice we are all different but by what scale could we even dare to label any of these traits better than others? The only thing that matters is that you know who the fuck Jon Bon Jovi is. That's definitive.
Many years later, I'm about 15 years old now, and I'm at the grocery store getting a bunch of stuff for my mom. When it's my turn in line, I unload a full cart of food onto the conveyor belt and when I look up, I recognize the woman at the register. It's Mike's mom. She's older but she still looks the same. I remember Izaak and as I think about him, recognition dawns in her face too. She knows who I am. She knows I was friends with both her son and with Izaak. I think about screaming at her or just casually asking her what it's like to hate people like Izaak for such stupid reasons. I look behind me and see that the line is long. Everyone is waiting for my heap of goods to be purchased so they can take my place and interact with this woman.
No, not this woman. I look at the ground and lick my lips, clenching my fists, ready to bash her face in while she's calmly beep-beeping my groceries. I look up at her and slowly shake my head. I can't do this. I can't make this transaction.
I leave. I just walk out. The pile of groceries sits on the conveyor belt and yields to no one. She doesn't say anything. I know as I leave the store that she is just staring at my back and she knows exactly why. It's not much resolution but at 15, I am not yet a ninja. I'm still just a little boy who doesn't understand the world. Not even a little.
Damn. That was the saddest stroll down memory lane I've taken in a while. I'm getting all of these memories written so I can remember them when I'm old and so my daughter can have an idea what the world was like when I was a kid. I had forgotten when I started this project that so many of the memories that stuck are pretty shitty. I've got a million more. But that's why I eventually cracked and became Ninja. Time for something to laugh at. This seems relevant:
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Vice Presidential Debate
The most fundamental difference between the two candidates:
Education VS. Indoctrination; Nuclear VS. Nuk-u-lar; Change VS. More Bush
Education VS. Indoctrination; Nuclear VS. Nuk-u-lar; Change VS. More Bush
Product Review [unpaid]: War on Terror Game
Ok, this is awesome:
If you are looking for a way to get on the NSA watch list, this is it. Just get yourself a copy of War on Terror, the board game.
Just listen to this awesome discription:
Just listen to this awesome discription:
Each player starts as an empire filled with good intentions and a determination to liberate the world from terrorists and from each other.Then the reality of world politics kicks and terrorist states emerge.
Andrew said: "The terrorists can win and quite often do and it's global anarchy. It sums up the randomness of geo-politics pretty well."
In their cardboard version of realpolitik George Bush's "Axis of Evil" is reduced to a spinner in the middle of the board, which determines which player is designated a terrorist state.
That person then has to wear a balaclava (included in the box set) with the word "Evil" stitched on to it.
Police confiscations of this game in the UK have proven once again that you can have peace or you can have justice but in a dictatorship by committee, you probably won't get both.
While in the USA, you still have freedom of speech, so long as you don't say anything illegal.
While in the USA, you still have freedom of speech, so long as you don't say anything illegal.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
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