Thursday, November 15, 2007

May Early 80s Hair Style Never Darken Our Doors Again

I know, I’m four days late on the Junior High Yearbook Photo-a-thon. Gimme a break, I had stuff to say about strip clubs and other forms of public nudity. I’m a busy, busy man.

But now it is time to break down the walls of pain and shed some light on the dark places of the world. Scans from the “Jaguar ’81” yearbook, straight off the glass of the scanner, baby. Valley View Intermediate, Pleasant Hill, California All hail!

In the interest of fairness, I’ll start out with a shot with me in it. Try and pick out our hero! (That’d be me!) Hint: Very short. Very blond. Somewhat dorky. (Yes, I know, there are a fair number of folks in this picture that fit that bill, but give it a go)


Front row. Fifth from the left with the plaid flannel shirt on. Yes, they spelled my name wrong in the caption. Bastards! And look at that kid fourth from the right on the front row! It’s hard to even believe that he and I are the same species, never long the same age. Dude had a MUSTACHE! In 8th grade! They must have been putting growth hormones in his Grape Nuts when he was a toddler.

OK, onward, to the goofy bits!

This one was apparently taken at a dance. They used to have school dances right after school and only once or twice at night. So you’d get out of class and then go straight to a dance. Which struck me as bad tactical planning. “How can I get my hair to flip back and feather PERFECTLY, if I can’t have access to my Remington Pro Series hair dryer?!”


What you can’t quite make out in this photo is that poor blond girl wearing the overalls is also sporting headgear for her braces. You can see the shadow of the wire cutting across her chin, poor dear. Yes, she went to a dance in junior high wearing her headgear. I’m pretty sure she still hasn’t forgiven her parents for that trick. This was also back in the days when Kool and the Gang had hit singles. And not just hit singles, but MONSTER hit singles. You couldn’t walk out of a building without that horn riff smacking you in the face.

I choose this next one not only because the hair on these ladies is spectacular, but the lipstick on the girl on the left scares me pretty badly.


I don’t know the name of the girl on the left with the moose-like lips, but the girl on the right is Francie Maguire. I have almost zero recollection of her. Short nerdly boys who played D&D on the weekends didn’t get to talk to “women” like this.

There was this strange little “store” the student council people ran in between classes. You could buy paper and pencils and at lunch, chocolate milk or these frozen Carnation milk shake things. Those were tasty. Kind of a weird thing, but it was usually staffed by my two favorite girls, Beth Portello and Monika Heinritz.


As you can see, they were also the favorites of a number of boys. That’s Beth in the background on the left and Monika mugging for the camera on the right. Who the hell cares who the guys are? Seriously, I don’t.

Oh man, did I ever have the HUGEST crush on Monika.


Can you blame me? She’s adorable! Although now that I’m in my forties, I have to say that I don’t really find her attractive in the same way I did back in 1981. As I’ve noted before with my youthful crushes, I consider this a good thing. It’d be creepy if I still found her hot, you know? Ew. You can pretty much bank on a story later this month talking about her. Oy vey, the drama!

Finally, we have the pièce de résistance for this round.


The lovely (in her own way) Linda Dowling. Lots and lots of guys were very hot for her, but she never did it for me. Although, she has 1981 fashion and 1981 as a lifestyle completely NAILED with this ensemble. Hair feathered to within a millimeter of its life, bad plastic-y iron-on tee-shirt depicting a marijuana as palm trees motitf and a caption that reads “Touch of Grass,” and pants that are SO tight she can’t even get them buttoned up properly. Just flat out spectacular.

I am out of words. 

Jon scribbled this mess on 11/15/07 at 12:02 AM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Photos Regular Post. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Dear Gratuitously Naked Conversationalist at the Gym:

Hey! How are you?

Wait, I already know how you are! You were sick last week. Bad cold that turned into the flu. Which, I can totally understand must have sucked as bad as you described it. How many times did you “blow chunks?” Oh right, four or five times! You lost count. Ughs-ville.

You carried on that conversation with your friend, “I Shave My Head at the Gym Guy” for a while. You guys also seem to know A LOT about mutual funds and option calls. Bravo. I was not aware of that whole Triple Witching Hour phenomenon. Very interesting.

Anyhoo.

Here’s a thought, maybe you could wait and have those conversations, heck any conversation at all, until you are clothed? Or barring that, if you simply must speak while you are standing there with all the stuff God gave you hanging out for the rest of us to try and avoid glancing at, go right ahead and use that towel you are holding in your hand and wrap it around yourself. Super easy process, the towel wrap.

Forgive me if I’m pointing out the obvious, but have you noticed how deathly quiet the men’s locker room is, until you start gabbing? Again, I’m sorry if this is something you already know, but I kind of think it’s worth repeating: There is a code in the men’s room which also applies in the locker room: you don’t talk. You can make little head bob gestures in lieu of verbalization that mean “Hey man, what’s up?” but no words are exchanged. You do what you came for and then leave. Talking happens in other places. This isn’t rocket science and most of us learned this a long time ago. It’s just one of those ancient cultural and anthropological things.

Please know this as well, this isn’t so much about “good naked” and “bad naked” as it is about nudity in general. Again, from the rapid and discreet glances I made, and with the understanding that I am a flaming heterosexual, I have to say that though you do fall in the “good naked” class of people, which might make you think you can just stand there, glisten and chit-chat for an extended period of time, but really? Not so much. Granted, I fall squarely in the “not so great naked” category, so of course I’m totally green with envy, but I think all the other guys around me, even the “look pretty decent naked” committee in the back corner would agree that having you stand there and talk about no-load mutual funds while your junk is out there on display isn’t really why we are here at the gym.

So let me offer up this one small piece of advice. Next time you come to the gym, take a moment and observe the behavior of your fellow male cohorts. Heck, you can even stare at me next time, I’m cool with that. See, when I change from my street clothes to my shorts and tee-shirt, notice that the transition from clothed to naked to clothed again is almost instantaneous . Ten seconds tops. There is no delay between when I whip off my pants to when I pull up the running shorts. I even set the shorts and tee-shirt out on the bench next to me so I don’t have to root around in my gym bag to re-clothe myself. Plus, no one wants to see me bend over and try and find something in my gym bag while pants-less. That’s not a pretty picture, trust me. Also, note that I am as quiet as a proverbial church mouse while performing all disrobing and re-dressing activities. They require no speech.

Now, please understand, I think it’s great that you aren’t ashamed of your body and feel completely comfortable in your skin. That must be super for you. It’s just that the rest of us don’t feel all that comfortable with your skin, that’s all.

Thanks, bro (you seem to be a “bro” kind of fellow),
jon

P.S. Do you know “Grunts While He Does Squats Man?” I think we need to have a talk with him as well about all the noise he makes while lifting. I’m worried he’s going to hurt himself.

jd

Jon scribbled this mess on 11/14/07 at 12:03 AM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post Favorite Entries. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Things to Do in Salt Lake When You Are Assuredly Neither Dead nor Discernibly Turgid

My Mom invited our family to go to Mississippi during the holidays this year. This fact in and of itself isn’t that interesting. We pack everyone in suitcases and small scuba-like breathing apparatuses and hope for the best and so far it’s always worked out well. The little kids love it, though Jonah seems to be deathly afraid of the dark, small places and refuses to sleep with covers now, but we save tons o’ cash on plane tickets that way. Which means more prezzies for me!

No, the interesting thing about this trip is that because of some scheduling stuff with my work, everyone is leaving before me and I’ll be home alone for THREE WHOLE DAYS.

Alone.

For THREE days!

Squee!

OK, I’ll miss the fam for sure and I’ll look forward to our happy reunion, but dang! Three days of complete silence and no kids and silence and I can do anything I want and peace and tranquility. And it will be quiet in the house. Have I mentioned that?

Reha asked me what I might do during my “time off” from the family.

“Easy. Strip club.”

Which is a funny answer, for a couple reasons, A) She knows that I know that she’d be “disappointed” in me if I went to a strip club, it would be a betrayal of all the femi-nazi values she has worked very hard to hammer into my wee brain, B) I’ve never been to a strip club, ever, so I don’t know any of the strip club protocols. I know there is something about having a bunch of singles and obviously, I get the idea that there are nekkid wimmens parading around. I also know that there are lap dances and I have to say that is where I draw the line.

See, though I do see the appeal of being in a place with naked women strutting around, I utterly fail to see the attraction once you toss a whole bunch of other guys all sitting around and gawking into the mix. And really, unless Jen is knocking on my door in just a bathrobe, I’m not going to be that excited about the whole thing.

And speaking of “excited” let’s speak for a moment about lap dances and the whole dollar bills being placed on some dancer’s person. I’d imagine that unless one is completely dead in the nethers, one is going to become, shall we say, discernibly turgid while hanging around a strip club place. At least, I’d think that would be the case. The male bartenders probably get used to it, I suppose, but for me, it would be my adolescence all over again and this time I wouldn’t have a huge Trapper Keeper three ring binder to hold strategically in front of my Levi’s.

If you get my meaning.

Anyway, all I’m saying is that “discernibly turgid” is not a state I ever enjoy being in WHEN I AM IN A PUBLIC PLACE. I’d have to think about gardening or start solving quadratic equations in my head before I could stand up.

Anyway, so “strip club,” though it is my preferred “go to” answer, mostly because it always fails to be believable and it’s always funny to watch my wife’s eyes roll around in her head, is not on the table. Though I do like saying “discernibly turgid” and will probably devote an entire post later this month to seeing how many times I can legitimately work the phrase “discernibly turgid” into my prose. Heck, maybe I’ll just do that in all my posts from here on out.

Some other possibilities for my “alone time” I have rejected:

Here is what will really happen:

Days 1 and 2, I have to work, so my evenings will be filled with the following activities: decent take out food and whatever episodes of House or Heros I haven’t seen yet. The third day (a Saturday), I’ll go snowboarding and then pass out seconds after I walk through the door until I have to get up at the crack of down to catch a plane that will re-unite me with my loving family.

Although, frankly, that movie theater hopping thing sounds kind of fun. Might look into that a bit more.

Jon scribbled this mess on 11/13/07 at 12:02 AM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

Monday, November 12, 2007

Redemption and Vindication

A week or so ago, I published some photos from The Gold Mine From Whence All Stories Shall Emerge Hanceforth. The photos were from my junior high yearbook and I promised I’d be posting more photos every Sunday during the month of November.

Yeah, that didn’t happen.

Real life got in the way, and by real life, I mean painting, repainting, going to Home Depot 43 times and then proceeding to do some more painting. All that painting got in the way.

Anyway, I also promised the story of Greg Francisco and his evil ways from when I was a wee lad. Here it is. Junior High Photo Phun later this week!


I first “met” Greg when we were both in 7th grade. Couple things to remember: I was the prototype for “late bloomer” so I was terribly short, skinny and small. Seriously, people stepped on me and the time just walking to and from classes. I didn’t start growing until I was a sophomore and almost 16. Sadly, that must be some kind of dominant gene in our pool, because our 13 year old is a skinny, if adorable shrimp. Luckily, he’s a bit more well put together mentally than I was. Also, I was not only new at the school, but it was also junior high, and having to move from classroom to classroom gave me the willies. Weird, I know, but let’s remember that I was also afraid that vampires would be sweeping into my bedroom at night; I was basically made out of neuroses and random fears, so being apprehensive about junior high went with the territory.

At the time, Greg was one of those people who could sense fear and crisis in others and use that to his advantage. He bullied me. Teased me. Threatened me with physical violence. Occasionally punched me HARD in the arm when no one was looking. “Borrowed” my lunch money from me with no intention of paying me back.

Yes, that’s not just a clever and well worn cliché. Bastard really did steal my lunch money.

I did my best to avoid confrontation with him. I parked my bike away from him. I tried to sit far away him in classes we shared. We lived somewhat close to each other and I’d either ride as fast as I could to get ahead or slow way the hell down to keep my distance.

Really, I lived in fear of him.

Every. Day.

The one time of day when I couldn’t avoid him was in jazz band. I played tenor sax and sat “first chair.” He played alto and sat “second chair.” Though even if he had sat first chair alto, I’d still have been sitting next to him. Every day I hoped he’d be sick or decide to quit band and take up torturing puppies full time.

That he sat second chair alto was a source of great disappointment to him. Greg was a naturally competitive person and being second chair to anyone didn’t sit well with him (or, if I could just get psychoanalytical here for a moment, it probably didn’t sit well with his over-bearing, un-loving and emotionally distant father, but I’m just projecting; I have zero clue as to his childhood or parental situation). Sitting first chair alto was my friend Greg Blake, who was a great kid, and was good enough that he almost always sat first chair.

The whole “first chair/second chair” thing was a competitive affair. You tried out and got seated according to skills, etc. You could challenge the person above you a couple times a year. G. Francisco usually lost those challenges to G. Blake, much to my secret delight at the time.

I sat first chair tenor say, not because of my mad musical skillz, certainly, but because there was dearth of decent players at the school who’d be willing to lug around a tenor sax. And really, the thing was comically large for my small frame. It was HELL to strap on to my bike, too. Ugh. The guy who played second tenor was really not a good player at all. So I never got challenged.

Until Greg Francisco decided in eighth grade that he’d had enough of hanging out in Greg Blake’s shadow and I would be easy pickings. So he talked the band director into letting him switch from alto to tenor and he moved further into my life.

Well, that just sucked to high heaven, let me tell you. The only good thing was that he didn’t have to sit RIGHT NEXT to me while he played second tenor. But after rehearsal every day as we left the bad hall, I got to hear all about how he was going to kick my ass when the next challenge round came up. SO MUCH FUN FOR ME!

Naturally, mere seconds after Mr. Hall, the band director announced that challenges were open, Greg marched up and wrote his name down on the board. Predictable, though annoying and made me get all nauseous and want to use the bell of my sax to catch the inevitable puke.

A couple weeks passed and I don’t think I’ve ever practiced or worked so hard for something in my life. I lugged that damn sax home every day and practiced my scales and the pieces and the solos like my life depended on it. Which to my junior high mind, it did.

Judgment day came and to my astonished self, I won! I kept my chair and Greg F. had to stay in second chair for the rest of the year. (Only a couple months, but still!) The only problem was that not only did he have the “shame” of being second chair, he also had to play the second chair tenor sax part, which let’s be honest here, sucks. You don’t get any solos, everything you do is harmony and you are essentially playing the part of a reeded trombone. And we all know how weird and goofy trombone players are.

Not good.

So Greg was a mass of seething resentment for the duration of the school year, which had not occurred to me as a possibility. Somehow I just thought, “Hey, I won! All my troubles are over! Let’s go play Dungeons and Dragons ALL weekend! I’ll bring the Doritos!” No, lived in fear the remainder of the year, since he blamed me for his failure to ascend to first chair.

Fast forward to the next year, we are both freshmen in ninth grade. I don’t have any classes with him and he’s given up band, so my life has gotten much better. I see him occasionally during lunch and after school, but I can usually arrange my life so I don’t have to see him and enter his Bubble Zone of Terror.

Except one day, I somehow end up behind him in line at lunch. He does his usual thing of taking some physical attribute of mine, (my incredibly pale demeanor for example; he liked to call me “Albino Fag” as I recall) and pelts me. But this time, I don’t let it go and slink off. I hold my ground and things go the way things do when pubescent teenagers spout off. We are about to have a fight, the one that has been brewing and stewing for at least three years. He is around a bunch of his friends, so he can’t just back down. He’ll look like an idiot. As I recall, I’m by myself. He says something about not wanting to get suspended so we’ll have the fight after school on the practice football field.

I have no recollection of the rest of that day. Pretty sure I don’t learn anything, that’s for sure. But I am DONE having him push me around. Even if I get the crap beat out of me, at least he will know he can’t just push me around with impunity any more. My reasoning isn’t quite so profound or lucid as I just described, but I just know I have to stand up for myself for once. I’d done it once in the relative safety of the band hall, so maybe I could/should do it out on the football field.

I’ll spare you the details of my nausea, sweating and nervous jittering during the day and say this:

I showed up at the field at 3:00 PM. Waited for a while.

He never showed up.

He also never bothered me again.

I don’t think he ever said anything to me ever again, he basically ignored me, much as I’d tried to ignore and avoid him for all those years.

So there’s that.

Jon scribbled this mess on 11/12/07 at 12:56 PM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Sisyphus Looks Over and Takes Pity on Me

I’m sure you know who Sisyphus was. Ancient Greek mythology dude, condemned for all eternity to roll a big ol’ boulder up a hill, only to have it roll back down the other side. I’m sure ol’ Sisy had it bad with the huge rock and everything, but I’m also positive home boy never had to re-model a house. Because that is a curse for the ages, man.

Anyway, Sisyphus and his rock is an apt metaphor for what been happening around here with the remodel. I know I said I wouldn’t talk that much about it, but I just had to share a small sample of The Crazy with you.

We have become the Death Zone for paint, paint cans, paint related accessories and of course, my soul. There are over 30 empty paints can in the garage right now, waiting to be disposed of properly. Thirty! I’ll have a picture up later. Our house is only 2400 or so square feet! In case you are doing the math, that much paint is enough for 14 houses our size. To put it simply, we (and when I say we, I really mean my wife) have changed our minds about wall colors a couple different times during this whole beastly extravaganza.

Observe:


This is the color of Jonah’s room now. The color is called “Blue Grey” but depending on the light it either looks purple or a different shade of purple. Which is bad on many, many levels, but mostly because Jonah has been known to be slightly volatile on occasion. We have so far fooled him into thinking it looks like the color of a battleship. If anyone comes over and tells him it looks purple, I can not be held responsible for my actions.

But Jon, you should pictures last week and the room was a completely different color! Light Blue! Bright! A happy color! Well, yeah, it looked great in the room, but from the outside it looked pretty crappy. And for reasons that are far too tedious to go into now, looking like dooky from the outside was NOT an option.

Last week:


The problem is that his room is visible from the living room, all the way down the hallway. So according to certain members of my family and the contractor, it may as well be in the same room as the living room. And bright blue is not on the menu in the living room, to say the least. Bit crazy making, I have to say, but I love my wife, so I’ll re-paint the world for her. (I like the contractor just OK, I’d only re-paint a small continent for him, like maybe one of the smaller ones, like Europe or Australia)

Final Score for the Weekend:

Trips to Home Depot or paint store yesterday: 5 (a new record!) I am now so close to the people at the paint department at Home Depot that I’m godfather to one of the attendants’ kids.

Number of times we have painted Jonahs’ room: 3

The living room: 2

Hallway: 2

Tomorrow we are deciding on the FINAL, FINAL FINAL color of the flooring. And by final, I mean second to the last choice. 

Jon scribbled this mess on 11/11/07 at 08:06 PM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Photos Regular Post. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link
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