Category: reminisce

Thoughts about the good old days… memories.

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belgian benefactor

Stop! It's the International Police.
S’appenin’ y’all? Me, nothing much. Just sitting here watching the OC on a Thursday night. That’s right, the OC on a Thursday. Yes, I have magic powers.

Tomorrow (tonight when you read this) we strike out on the Noise Pop warpath. Three concerts in two days, a music bender if you will. We tackle Vanderslice and Pedro first, then move along our battlefield to confront the Wrens and Earlimart, and wrap up with a pirate battle asea versus the Decemberists. We’re doing an overnighter in the city at a hotel in the Union Square district, which means we can hoof it to the Friday night show. It also means we have a morning to kill on Saturday. Should be a fun weekend.

My calculator totally sold for $90. That makes me happy. I think I’m getting a little addicted to selling stuff on Ebay, I keep trying to think of other things around the house that I can sell. I was thinking I could sell my hacked Pioneer PDR-05 pro cd burner. That thing was ~$5k new. I modified it to be able to accept the PC-type blanks, since it can normally only support the “pro” type (audio only). Maybe that mod would make it more desirable? I don’t know.

What’s that? You’re curious as to why in the world I bought a five-thousand dollar cd burner? Ahhh? now that’s an interesting story. Bottom line is, I didn’t. A guy I’ve never met, who lives in Belgium, bought it for me. I’m gonna tell you the story that I used to refer to as my “benefactor in Belgium” story.

Back in the time before PC shipped standard with PC burners, i.e. my junior year of college, I was an avid music fan and collector. Sometime late in high school I had created a webpage dedicated to the band Question Mark & the Mysterians. I had made the site mostly out of frustration that there wasn’t one out there already. Long story short, that site still exists today – and is now the #1 return on most search engines for Mysterians-related queries (although as webpages go, it’s a terrible, shaming example of what I can do? hey, I wrote it in high school).

I used to, and still do, get lots of questions on the Mysterians site. The major reason I made the site is because the band’s recordings aren’t commercially available, despite being very popular. So most of the questions I get are from people looking to obtain the music. One day I got an e-mail from a guy named Raymond. Raymond was in Belgium and was compiling a digital library of all his favorite American oldies. He needed the Mysterians song “96 Tears” as part of that collection, and he contacted me to get it.

Raymond asked me if I could get him a copy of the cd. At the time, I had no idea how to get another copy. I searched high and low to get the one copy I had, and I wasn’t about to part with it. When I politely told him I didn’t think I could find another copy, he asked me if I had a cd recorder – which I didn’t. Now, here’s where it gets strange. Over the course of maybe two more e-mails, Raymond explained to me that he was looking for some rare American recordings like “96 Tears” which were only available on vinyl or hard-to-find cds. Out of the blue, he offered to buy me a cd burner. Yeah, he offered to buy me a whole cd recorder just to get a copy of one song.

Honestly, I thought the guy was kidding. However, I figured “what the hell,” and one-upped him. I said something like “why not buy me a professional burner and then I can find some of the vinyl your after and transfer that to cd as well?” Unbelievably, he agreed. He said that because he was after mostly older American recordings, he was stuck placing large orders from the US – and that the import tax he paid on those items was an exorbitant 20%. He proposed an agreement whereby I would buy all the cds and vinyl he was after, have them shipped to me, open them all, and re-ship them to him declaring them as “used.” Seems that the import tax on new foreign goods is huge, but used foreign “gifts” are hardly taxed at all. He sent me an e-mail telling me to find the recorder I wanted, and let him know how much it was.

Still half-thinking the whole thing had to be a joke, I purposely searched for the most expensive and high-end burner I could find. At the time, professional burners weren’t that common, and were still very expensive. I found what I wanted in the Pioneer PDR-05, which retailed for ~$5k. As a complete joke, and without the slightest idea that he might actually follow through, I sent Raymond an e-mail saying the Pioneer PDR-05 would be the perfect burner. He didn’t even blink. The next afternoon I was picking up $7000 from a Western Union inside the Winn Dixie across from my apartment. Raymond had sent an extra $2k as “starter” money for the upcoming import-tax-evasion scheme we’d be working.

Now, here I am, a college kid who just got $7000 from a stranger he’s never met who lives in Europe. I bought my new Pioneer burner, and sent my first package to Belgium – two copied Question Mark & the Mysterians cds. After that Raymond would send me lists of cds, hundreds at a time, and I would order them. When they got to my house, I’d open each and every one, throw away the piles of cellophane, rebox the discs, and ship them to him declared as “gift: used music cds.” I also ordered vinyl, which I transferred to cd using the new burner and sent. He paid for all the shipping, the cost of materials, and frequently told me to use the money to pay for my gas and other expenses. Each week I would send him an accounting of his funds, a balance sheet showing all my expenses and what was left. I did this mainly because I wanted to assure him I was honest.

By this time I had developed quite a friendly relationship with this man. I learned that he was single, was in his fifties, and had been stationed at a US Army base in Germany during the 50’s and 60’s – which is where he developed his love of American music. I learned that he was retired, but was working as a “promoter” or something for a French modeling agency. I also learned that he was loaded, and very liberal with his money. He would often send packages for Sharaun. Perfume from Paris, chocolate from Germany, etc. Each week when I would send my homemade accounting sheet, he would tell me to take $200 or so and take my girlfriend out for dinner – which I gladly did. After a time, we began talking on the phone. He had a very thick accent, but I had no problem understanding him.

You’d think it couldn’t get any stranger, but it did. A few months into our buyer/seller relationship, Raymond e-mailed me asking for what he called “a favor.” Hang on, it’s gonna get strange here for a lil’ bit. In whatever year this was, I can’t remember, Pfizer had just come with Viagra – and the FDA’s approval of the drug was making big news around the world. Europe’s drug agency had yet to approve the drug, and it probably wouldn’t be available there for another year. What’s this have to do with Raymond, you ask? Well, as I mentioned before – Raymond was a man in his fifties, who worked with models. All the international news about Viagra must’ve gotten to him. He e-mailed me and asked me if I knew any US doctors who could get him some Viagra. He asked this completely out of the blue. Of course, I wasn’t really tied into any crooked prescription-writing doctors – so I wrote back apologetically saying I couldn’t help.

A day or so later, Raymond e-mailed me saying he’d found a way to get the Viagra in the US, but he needed my help to get it to him. He said he’d given my address to a doctor who would be sending me the pills, he ended up paying $80 per pill. A week later, I got a package in the mail with the Viagra. It came from New York City and was prescribed by, and to, a doctor there. Raymond had instructed me to get a large bottle of vitamins from a nutritional store, and make sure the bottle wasn’t clear. I found some Shark Fin pills, and after wrapping the Viagra in a small bag I hid them in the vitamins. I then re-sealed the foil on the pills and mailed them off to Brussels. At the time I really didn’t think much of it, but I think that might be in violation of at least some kind of federal laws. Strange indeed.

Over the next few months, business with Raymond continued as usual. Until one day when I took a phone call from him, and he told me he wanted to start a corporation in the US. In order to avoid some heavy taxation, and to get the corporation to be legally “based” in the States, he needed a US citizen as a founder. He asked if I would be willing to be a partner in this S-Corp that he was starting in New Jersey, so they could legally claim US status (for whatever reason). It was when he approached me with this that I started getting a little leery. I did a couple conference calls with Raymond, his sister in Milan, and some dudes from New Jersey, but I eventually ended up stalling and they were tied up with paperwork.

After that, Raymond just disappeared. As quickly as we started working together, we stopped. I got no more e-mails, no more phone calls, nothing. The whole thing went on for the better part of a year. After it was all over, Raymond had wired a twenty year old kid more than ten grand. My parents and friends suggested that I was being used to launder money, was being groomed for a young gay lover, was messing with the international mob, and would sure surely end up being taken away in handcuffs. After it all, I made out with an awesome cd burner, some pretty rare vinyl records, and a pretty good story.

To this day I haven’t heard from Raymond. I don’t know if he died, got arrested, was murdered, I know nothing. I do know that I have him to thank for enabling me to start trading cds as a hobby, and teaching me about Joey Dee and the Starliters‘ “Peppermint Twist” (his favorite song). Thanks Ray!

Wow, that turned out to be longer than I thought. But owell, at least it’s a good story. Last night I had asparagus with dinner. I don’t know what chemical it is in asparagus that makes your pee stink, but it sure acts fast. I peed within what must have been ten minutes after eating it, and it was already nice and stinky. I love asparagus, but I hate asparagus-pee.

Dude, my fingers are burning. Dave out.

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skipping class

Lazy is good.
A good weekend, felt nice and slow – like I like ’em. I must’ve caught a awful sleepin’ in bug, because I didn’t wake up until after 10am on both Saturday and Sunday. It didn’t seem to suck the productivity out of the weekend though, as I got a lot of yardwork done on Saturday. I’m trying to get the backyard as prepped as possible for the upcoming work-season (when the weather turns). I really can’t wait to get back out there and get to work. I hope to have the sprinklers, sod, and patio done this summer. We’ll see.

While in Taiwan, I realized that my laptop bag is way too heavy. I mean, I was carrying around so much random and unnecessary junk, all of it heavy. I had all sorts of cables and cords and converters for every country in the world. As well as my old TI-89 graphing calculator and it’s 100+ page manual. I decided that when I got home I would give it a thorough cleaning and slim it down a bit. After said cleaning, I was left with my calculator and manual and the link cable for it. Well, after reminiscing about all the good days of LaPlace transforms, differential equations, and 8-bit grayscale Mario Bros., I decided that I’ll never need the horsepower of that calculator again. So, onto Ebay it went. Hopefully it will fetch me a bit of money to help pay for the Garbage Pail Kids I just ordered (shhh, don’t tell Sharaun).

On Sunday, I spent some time redesigning and putting the finishing touches on my Pac Man pages. I wanted to create a nice menu system, and finally add all the pictures and content I’ve needed to upload. I used a free DHTML menu builder to create the nice rollover menu system, and took some new pictures for the results page. I think the final product came out really nice. I still want to add a few things to the pages, but they’re now the most complete they’ve been since I launched the site. I seem to be getting more and more feedback on them lately, and people seem to be enjoying them.

This Wednesday night is the Unicorns show, which I’m really excited about. Since this week is Noise Pop, we’re staying overnight in the city on Friday to catch a triad of shows. I used hotels.com to book a hotel in the city hall district which is in walking distance to the GAMH. We should be able to hoof it to the show on Friday night, and then figure out the best way to hit the double-feature on Saturday. Should make for a fun weekend and some good music.

I have several very vivid memories of college life, but one of my most vivid is of one single even that, for whatever reason, got stuck in my brain as a particularly enjoyable one. It was around noon one day, and I was walking around campus by the engineering library. My next class wasn’t for another few hours, but I didn’t want to leave campus because I had no car and the bus trip back and forth wasn’t worth the amount of time I’d be at home. So I was sitting in the sun reading. A couple buddies of mine spotted me and we chatted for a while when we realized that none of us had class until later that afternoon. So, we decided to walk across the street to a little bar/grill called The Swamp and get some lunch.

The weather was so nice, and The Swamp had a big-screen TV pulled out into the courtyard area and was playing a mid-week football game (as they often did during sunny warm days). We ordered some sandwiches and a pitcher of beer. Because the Florida sun can get hot, they had these awesome pitchers with a frozen core that kept the beer nice and frosty to the last drop. Halfway through the sandwiches, we ordered another pitcher – and we’d gotten pretty tied up in watching the game. And, as that cycle replayed itself over and over, we found ourselves watching the sun go down. Having missed our classes, gotten completely off our heads, and watched a game and a half – we just decided to stay. We hung out until 8ish, then caught buses to our respective homes. Full of beer and sunburned, I remember being so content. What a great day, and far better memories than what I would’ve picked up in whatever classes I missed.

Until tomorrow, did you know the corn nuts are just deep-fried corn?. See ya.

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the silent alarm

Stop! In the name of the lawd.
So I didn’t write again yesterday. I’m having to change my writing model since things are getting busy. I’ve seen this happen several times before where my life got busy and my journal suffered. Heck, I wrote so infrequently in college that I considered scrapping the whole journal idea altogether. I don’t wanna do that, I enjoy writing and posting. So I plan to change when I write, to give me a better chance of coming up with good stuff. Part of the missed two days this week is that there’s really not that much going on.

I’ve been watching clueless people get their hearts and spirits completely and utterly shattered by learning they really can’t sing… that’s always widely entertaining. These poor people look to be on the verge of suicide when they are, apparently for the first time in their lives, told that they can’t hold a tune. A fundamental truth that they believed about themselves has just been torn down in front of a national audience, and you can almost see the instant that their hopes and dreams are dashed. It’s awesome. I am, of course, talking about American Idol. While I’m not a big fan of the show once it gets into the serious competition phase – I love the slit-wrist-inducing audition episodes. Other than that, I’ve been watching the glorious spectacle that is the OC. There are so many miniskirts on that show it’s, as Pat put it, like a wonderful cancer.

While it may sound like I watch a lot of TV from the preceding paragraph, I don’t really. I watch the news, and the occasional show – but more often than not I’m only half watching while I work on the computer or otherwise fiddling around. I did watch Kill Bill again the other night, and the second time was better than the first – can’t wait for the second one now. But in reality, I try and watch as little TV as I can? I have some irrational dislike of being locked down in from of that thing for all my free time. Even though reading a book is just as sedentary, I feel better for doing it over TV. I try to model my life after the Unabomber. Except for the crazy part where he mailed bombs to people, of course.

When I was 16 I worked at Subway. Yeah, the sandwich place. I proudly earned my “Sandwich Artist” badge by, among other things, correctly knowing how many ounces of lettuce should go on a foot-long sub. I advanced through the ranks quickly, mostly because the “ranks” were just a bunch of drug-doing do-nothings who were all having sex with each other and sniffing coke off the prep tables. Nevertheless, I was soon single-handedly closing the store at 2am, balancing the daily books, making bank drops, etc. I even had my own set of keys to the joint.

Rewind to my first month or so working there. I was restocking the cups we kept under the register, and while down there noticed a small pushbutton hidden along the inside of the cabinet. For some reason, I decided to press it and see what it did. Nothing happened. What a boring button. About a minute later I asked my senior coworker what “that little button under the counter by the cups” did. The first words out of her mouth were, “You didn’t press it, did you?” “No,” I said, “just curious.” “Oh good,” she replied, “that’s the silent alarm. Press that and the cops will be here in minutes.’ I think at this point she saw my expression and followed with, “You pressed it, didn’t you?” “Yup,” I said, head hung down. There wasn’t much we could do, the police station was only a few blocks away. Only a minute or so later, two cops edged in the door, guns drawn and creeping along in spread-leg I’m-about-to-shoot-someone fashion. They weren’t happy, and neither was the store owner. It was pretty funny though, although embarrassing at the time. We had a lot of fun at that place: locking people in freezers, stealing sandwiches, burning the drive-thru down… twice. Ahhh… first jobs.

OK, OK, I wrote! I took time and wrote. Dave out.

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i remember

Freezecamping.
I had a friend in college who used get down sometimes for no apparent reason. During his down times he’d say that he was “in a funk.” I first remember hearing the term on some baseball wrapup on ESPN. I never really thought too much about it, I guess because I never really experienced a “funk.” I don’t know how to describe what’s been looming over me lately, but something is there. Maybe this is what a funk feels like.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m actually a really happy person, and I’m quite satisfied with every aspect of my life. It’s not that I’m overtly upset or depressed about anything, it’s more like there a “shadow” of something hanging just out of sight, just barely there enough to where I can sense it. The best way I can describe it is that I feel like there should be some “transition” coming up in my life. I’ll try to explain.

All my life I’ve tracked or measured or gauged things in terms of large events: graduating high school, graduating college, getting married, getting a job, etc. Each event is like cresting a hill on a roller coaster, I enjoy myself while all the while anticipating the nearing precipice. Then I pass that marker and start another ride, awaiting the next slope and drop. It’s like I’ve always seen milestones off in the future, and I subconsciously wait for them. Sometimes I just get this feeling like I’m poised on the edge of one of those roller coaster drops – but this time I don’t know what it could be. I feel like I’m expecting something to happen soon.

Sorry, psychobabble stuff because I’m bored. I actually wrote paragraphs very similar to those about a month ago, but never posted them because they sounded dumb. So now I’m revisiting the thought and posting it.

I used to write little one paragraph entries in my journals called “I Remember.” I’d set down fond memories in abridged form – in hopes that one day I’d have totally forgotten them and be delighted to read and recall them. Well for this blog I wanted to write a story from my youth down, but couldn’t decide which one. So I’m gonna do a few one-paragraph versions of a few I considered.

We all told our parents we were spending the night at each others’ houses. I think it was the only time we tried that particular ruse, since it was just too risky. We drove to West Cocoa and bought a $20 off some guy on the corner. I drove my red Nissan Sentra Joey had his car. We ended up driving out to an abandoned drive-in movie theater that had long since turned into a grown over forest. The only thing that hinted at the place’s previous life was a streetlamp standing in the middle of some pine trees. We parked and enjoyed copious amounts of cannabis. We laughed, talked, saw Batman in the clouds, and finally decided just to sleep out there in our cars. I remember waking up to water dripping on my leg. The inside of the car had filled with condensation from our breathing. We woke up early, covered Joeys car (containing a still sleeping Joey and Kyle) with thrown out couch cushions, and headed to McD’s for breakfast.

It was high school and Joey was spending the night at my place. We snuck out the window and headed to a party at Skyview, the abandoned drive-in mentioned above. On the overgrown dirt road leading into the party loop, Joey found a full gallon bottle of gin. I think he drank about half before we left, and maybe more on the way home. I’ve never seen anyone that drunk. I asked another friend to help me carry him. We had walked nearly five miles to get to the party. We each slung an arm across our shoulders and hauled his passed out body home. When we got home there was no way we were getting in the window with him, so I just bit the bullet and came through the front door. Justin helped me carry Joey into my room and drop him on the floor. I woke in the morning to find Joey had pissed himself overnight. I remember trying to explain to my mom that I just “wanted to clean my floor and vacuum.”

We were too young to drive, none of us had ever tasted beer. Joey’s parents were out of town and he knew where a spare key to the car was. We took the car and drove around town until I spotted someone older that I knew and persuaded him to buy us four big bottles of Red Bull malt liquor. Once back at Joey’s house, I suppressed vomit with each swallow – standing over the sink the whole time, fully expecting not to be able to finish the bottle. Once buzzed, we again took the car over to my ex-girlfriend’s house where Joey dropped three of us off and left. Somehow the cops came. I remember telling the cops we were camping and out for a walk, the same as we’d told our parents. Dispatch called each parent and we nervously awaited as she read each parents’ reply over the radio. All three of our parents said “return to campsite.” I remember the cops were so cool: “Have you boys been drinking tonight?” “No sir.” “Well you smell like a god-damned brewery.” Andy threw up in his mouth and swallowed it back down.

Joey, Kyle, and I snuck out of my house and headed over to a semi-cute girl’s house. We always used to carry our Zippo lighters with us everywhere we went. This girl was probably cuter than I now give her credit for, since I was judging her with the idealistic eyes of a high school male. I remember she took Kyle’s lighter and stuck it down her pants, we were in her driveway. She told him to reach in and get it. I was so jealous, but that is one of the more vivid memories I have. I thought that was such forward flirting – and I loved it.

I remember I had just kissed Her for the first time. Sharaun was supposed to be busy with Vacation Bible School at church. Her and I laid on the bed, and Pavement’s Wowee Zowee was playing on my stereo. After kissing we just laid there together. That’s when my door swung open and Sharaun walked in. I had my head on the pillow, so all I heard was my door open – then slam shut again. Then Her turned to me, eyes wide, and said “That was Sharaun.” I got up and found Sharaun in the bathroom. I promised her that nothing had happened, and while we talked behind the closed door She took it upon herself to leave. She and I used to joke that the world might explode if we ever kissed. Oh, it exploded… right in my face. Thus began my eight-month lost weekend. The only time I’ve in the past ten years I’ve not been with Sharaun.

We skipped lunch at school to drive out into the woods and check on the marijuana plant we were cultivating. A week earlier we had dug a nice 6″ deep bed about 100 yards into the woods, at the end of a self-made machete-cleared trail. We started our plant in a little flower pot. After a couple weeks it had flourished in the pot, and we could tell it was going to be a female. We were going to transplant it into the bed we had dug – and needed to fill it with fertilizer. Easy enough. We headed to Wal Mart to pick up some Miracle Grow and on the way out simply drove up to the fertilizer pallets in the parking lot and helped ourselves to 400lbs of fine manure, then headed out to do the transplant. Apparently we had been in and out of the woods too many times, and a nearby preschool had reported our car as “suspicious.” Upon getting to the plant, we found it had died and withered overnight. Out of frustration I uprooted the plant and tossed it into the woods. As we came out of our trail there was a cruiser with two cops waiting. They didn’t see me at first so I ducked back into the woods and warned the others. We quickly chose a “talker” whose story we’d all go with no matter what. Unfortunately the dumbest one of us proclaimed himself talker, and we had to follow whatever he might come up with. That was how we ended up explaining that four 16 year old kids were “building a fort” in the woods. Using 400lbs of fertilizer to “level” the ground upon which we’d build the fort. As for the Miracle Grow, our talker’s grandfather apparently loved tomatoes – but could “smell them from miles,” so we were going to grow some for him at our fort? as a surprise. Yes. Seriously. That was our story. They knew what we were doing but couldn’t prove it. We got away without as much as a call to our folks.

Dave out.

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newcastle?, you mean bud?

Mr. and Mrs. Frank Davis
What a busy past few days. I’m glad I don’t write over the weekend, because I’m not sure I would have had time.

Friday night was my brother’s wedding rehearsal dinner. It was very nice, just casual and laid back. A nice time to chat and further get to know people. At the bar before we sat down, I was again reminded that we were in FL. When I asked the bartender if they had Newcastle, he gave me an odd stare. When I followed up by asking for Guiness, he almost walked away from me. Finally, I ordered a Michelob Amber Bock and was done with it. I think he sensed that I was just some dumb yank who doesn’t worship at the alter of Anheuser Busch – and took pity on me by suggesting their darkest and most exotic brew.

When Anthony visited Florida recently, he came back having noticed a few stark differences between California and here. Firstmost, he noticed that foreign cars are nearly nonexistent here. He also noticed that from supermarkets to restaurants, you can only get the most generic, US brew beers. Both his observations have proven true by me. I never really noticed before, but you really have to go to an Irish pub or specialty beer bar to get anything other than Bud and it’s not-so-distant cousins. Strange, but I guess you only need to give ’em what they want.

Saturday was my little brother’s wedding. Man, what a crazy site to see the kid you grew up with standing in front of you getting married. It was a nice ceremony, and the reception was held to only a mild level of crunkedness (thanks Steve), despite my bro’s hoodlum friends. One thing I did think was awesome, they called my bro Frank throughout the entire wedding. The only time they referred to him as John was during the legal vows. Otherwise, even the guy marrying them called him Frank. It said “Angela and Frank” on the napkins, the DJ called him Frank, and even his wife calls him only Frank. I was so proud of my nicknaming abilities I stole a couple napkins so I could keep them for souvenirs. If you don’t know the Frank/John story, check out the bro’s entry in the Cast of Characters page, this paragraph will make more sense then.

Aside from the wedding, we’ve visited with a whole mess of people we haven’t seen in a long time. I drank some beers on the deck of the Cocoa Beach Hilton with a couple guys I haven’t really seen since high school. We visited Sharaun’s grandfather, aunt, uncle, cousin, and others. I finally met Jeremy & Jess’ new little boy, and got to hang out with them for a while. So we’ve been making the rounds.

Well, I’m off. Today we visit more grandparents, more old friends, and have dinner with Bob from FL. Seems like another action packed day to keep us busy.

Dave out.

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broken down charm

Jesus Christ and NASCAR.
Florida is just like I remember it. No, I mean just like I remember it. Sure, there are little things that have changed here and there, but by and large this place is untouched from when I left it. Driving into our old home town, I was stuck by how run down and ragged things look. This is an old area, and I don’t think much new money comes in. I’d say there are an equal number of closed up, shuttered, and unoccupied stores than there are open and functional ones. There are large supermarkets that stand as empty as the day they closed when I still lived here nearly ten years ago. Chipped paint and broken storefront signs still scream for repairs like they did the day I left. Strip malls with less than half their stores filled look like a set of redneck teeth, empty gaps more prevalent than not. Faded “for rent” signs still taped to the windows of the same dilapidated commercial properties they pleaded from years ago.

This place is old and run-down, and the years show. Still, there is a charm here. Some kind of beach-bum, Florida-bred, run-down-and-who-cares charm that so well fits the Floridian mentality. Where things are simple, and don’t need to be new and shiny. Where people buy things at the same place their parents bought things. With the Jimmy Buffet attitude, the dusty and outdated facade becomes something nostalgic and not at all unpleasant. There is a history here, and the people are friendly to each other. There is a Mayberry-esque “general store” type feeling that shines through the old-n-busted exteriors and makes me somewhat homesick.

It’s strangely enticing. “Come here and don’t worry.” “Look at this place, this is the pace at which life should be lived. We have all we need and we’re happy this way.” Florida is great for that. Of course, there are newer, more California-minded, areas – as there probably are anywhere you might go. But here in our old home town, it’s business as usual. I’m somewhat envious of it, but altogether not sure if being here now would amount to relaxation, or something more like stagnation. It’s Florida, it’s the South, it’s where I grew up – and it’s still in my blood. I can’t deny the draw of it all, but it’s definitely a double edged sword. For all the reasons there are to admire this place, there are the same reasons to think it a festering sore. Still, the memories are here – and I do smile when I drive around. That’s Florida, that’s where I grew up.

As for us, we’re having a great time so far. Since we’re here for far less time than we’re used to spending, we have to cram a lot of visiting and socializing into our schedule. Today I met my brother’s fiancé’s family for the first time. Above all, they seem like really nice people. We spent time opening gifts with Sharaun’s family, and resting from our harrowing journey from the Schwarzenegger state. Once again, I made out like a bandit on the gifts front. I got lots more nice clothes, and a handful of other cool this-n-thats. We also had an awesome home-cooked southern Christmas dinner. The rest of the week plays out with my bro’s wedding, and visits with friends and relatives. Should be a fun, if hectic, time.

Day two of vacation and I’m still blogging. Although uploading and searching for images over dialup is supremely frustrating. I’m off to bed, good night all. Hope everyone had an awesome Christmas. Oh, and hope you pagans enjoyed whatever heathen rites you celebrate as well.

Dave out.

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rememberies

Ali says,
Long blog. Yesterday we had stories of personal tragedy that are funny when I look back on them. Today I have a couple stories of personal tragedy that haven’t quite turned into funny memories yet. Well.. the getting beaten up one… kinda…

We got robbed when I was in the 5th grade. My mom picked my brother and I up as usual from the house where we’d spend a couple hours after school every day. As we pulled into the driveway, dad’s car was there already. I remember a soon as mom pulled into the driveway he came out and told mom he needed to talk to her, and asked my brother and I to stay in the car. I saw my mom start crying, and then they went into the house. I don’t think I waited, I just got out of the car and followed them in. What a mess.

Someone had broken in and absolutely trashed the place. They had taken everything out the fridge and spread it all around the house. Books were taken of bookshelves, laid open on the coffee table, and had milk poured all over them. Squeeze bottle ketchup covered the walls and ceiling, and clung to every picture and painting. My dad’s bark paintings he bought in Brazil were ruined. Powdered laundry detergent stuck to the floor where something else had been spilled. Dark lines of soy sauce stained the carpet up and down the hallway, and added a sickly sweet smell to the whole mess. To this day, the small of soy sauce still reminds me of that day.

They took my mom’s jewelry, a handgun of my dad’s, and other things. From my room they stole the few dollars I had laying on my desk, and I think a couple Nintendo games. They didn’t even touch my brother’s room, although there was a $20 bill in plain sight on his dresser. Later on we discovered they also took a spare set of keys to the house, we had to have the locks changed.

I got so upset that I had to leave the house. My folks were calling, or had already called, the police. I took off on my bike and headed up the street, I just wanted to go away from there. The smell and sight of the whole thing was just too much. I ended up riding across the road to my school. It was there that I saw Mrs. Forinash, my 4th grade teacher from the year before. She must’ve seen me crying, because she came out of the classroom and started talking with me. I’ll never forget how good she made me feel. She told me that as long as no one was hurt, we were lucky. I left there feeling a lot better.

The house was such a mess that we had to have it professionally cleaned. Insurance put us up in the Embassy Suites while the various cleaning companies took a week to undo the vandalism. When we got back, there was a little piece of carpet they missed in the hall that was still crunchy with old soy sauce. I remember that. The cops never did find anything on the kids who did it. To this day my mom thinks it was some kids who had some kinda beef with me. The most certainly had to be kids, not only would a real thief not stay long enough to trash the place, but they came in through the doggy door – so they were small. Anyway, I don’t know what kind of enemies I could’ve made, being only in the 5th grade, but stranger things have happened I suppose.

It sucks to get robbed.

Shane and I went down to the dirt tracks to go ride on Hell Hill, I think we were in 5th grade. It was this huge dirt ditch that had a track running into, and out of, it. You had to ride down one side and make it back up the other. It was very steep, and very deep, at least to a couple of 5th grade boys.. You got going really fast on the down side, and then had to peddle like crap to make it up the other side to the top. If you made it, there was another little trail that went through the woods and ended up in a field (everything there seemed to end up in a field somehow).

Anyway, that day Shane and I both made it. The patch of woods that the little trail afterward went through was sunken in the ground – the tops of the trees were at ground level ? like a little sunken copse of trees. At the beginning, you had a tiny steep hill that dropped you to the bottom of the sunken place, about 20ft or so. So, when you went down that little hill after just coming off Hell Hill, you always let out a little sarcastic yelp, like you’re supposed to be scared of this little hill when you just conquered Hell Hill! At least that’s what we did. Anyway, I led the way, and I went down the hill and yelled something, probably “Whoa” or something like that. Shane followed close behind and I heard him yell too.

The trail was skinny and twisty, and you really couldn’t ride all that fast. I came around a turn and there was another kid riding towards me, I’ll never forget that kid’s face. A short blonde kid, older than me. I put on the brakes and stopped, so did he. He asked me, “Did you call me an asshole?” I was like, “No.” Then, Shane comes tearing around the corner and has to slam on his brakes too. We’re both sitting there, and this kid is blocking our way. He asks Shane, “Why did you call me an asshole!?” I don’t remember what Shane did, but I said, “We didn’t,” or something like that. Then this kid got off his bike, and punched me in the mouth.

I’d never, ever, been hit in the face before, let alone with a closed fist. It was shock more than pain, and I just looked at him and said, “What did you do that for?” he hit me two mores times, and then got on his bike and rode away in the direction we had just come from. So, we got on our bikes and continued riding. About 40 seconds later, I came out of shock and began crying. Riding and crying, we both wanted to go home. And my face hurt.

When we got to the end of the trail, there were like 10 kids there. One of them was the kid who had already hit me. I just remember thinking how big they all were, there was a black kid there who was so tall an skinny. Anyway, the blonde kid and what looked to be his older brother approached us and started with the, “Why’d you call us assholes” thing again. We were blocked off, and we just straddled our bikes and denied saying anything.

They began hitting me, hard this time. In the face. The older stocky blonde kid was hitting me a lot, and they were just talking to Shane. Other kids started hitting me too, in the stomach and face. I was crying and asking them to stop. The whole time they’re asking why I called them assholes, I kept saying I didn’t. The big black kid hit me, and it hurt the worst.

I remember telling them, in response to the, “Why’d you..” question, “Why don’t you ask him,” pointing at Shane. I didn’t want to get Shane beat up, but I was getting pummeled. They then took up on Shane, hitting him a lot harder and a lot more than they hit me. They were still hitting me, but it wasn’t as much. They were really laying into Shane, we were both crying. I heard the big blonde kid talk about stabbing us, and he had a knife out.

Then, the black kid said to stop hitting us. The other kids ignored him, but he said, “Hit them again and I’ll hit you.” I guess they all knew how hard he could hit, because they quit. After they stopped, they just got on their bikes and rode away. The stocky kid had a red jacket on, and it had a name on the back, “Travis “Something, I couldn’t make out the last name because it was in cursive. But I remembered the first name.

When we rode out finally, there were some Mexicans working in the field, but they didn’t speak English when we asked for a phone. So, we had to ride al the way home to my house. It was a long ride. I remember my head hurting so bad, and Shane’s too, we were riding slow and we both felt dizzy and sick. I thought of riding to Jason’s house, his mom used to babysit my brother and I, and it was a lot closer than my house. We called my mom from there. I said, “Mom, can you come pick me up, we just got beat up.” Of course I was crying. Shane called his dad too. His dad was extra pissed.

I remember driving all around town with Shane’s dad in the van, just looking at every kid we saw an him asking us if that was them. We went back to the dirt tracks, we went down to the riverbed, we went everywhere that teenage kids might hang out. We finally stopped over by the park, and I saw a friend of ours outside. I asked him if he knew any kids with a red jacket that said “Travis” and he said yes, and that they lived in the apartments on the other side of the park. We drove in the direction he pointed us in, and sure enough all the kids were outside on their bikes. It must have been a couple hours since they had beat us up, but when they saw who we were – they scattered. The two brothers ran towards the apartment complex, and Shane’s dad ran right after them. When they ran into an apartment and shut the door, he ran right in after them. The kids’ dad was watching TV when Shane’s dad busted in, and they almost went at it. Shane’s dad called the cops from the kids’ own apartment.

Eventually the cops rounded up all the other kids. They questioned Shane and I about the incident, and we said all of the kids had hit us – but that the tall one had stopped them. It turned out that some of them were on probation already, and might have been be going to jail. Shane had to go to the hospital, and I went home with a sore head and neck, and a cut up mouth from getting my cheeks pounded into my teeth.

Bad day.

Funny how things stay with you when you’re a kid. For years I had a fear of being in relatively remote wooded areas. When we’d be hanging out in the woods, I’d jump at other kids coming. I also had a great fear of getting beat up, although I suppose that’s a pretty normal thing. I’ve always been over-worried about getting robbed too, but hopefully that childhood incident will satisfy the statistics and I won’t have to deal with it again.

In closing, I’d like to thank those of you who told me that yesterday’s blog was some of the finest blogging ever. Even though you broke the cardinal rule of not talking about the blog in person, I appreciate the praise. Pat’s comment was the clincher, helped push a kinda funny entry over the edge.

Dave out.