Hangin' With The Kindershorty

Having two shorties is great, but once you've have two shorties for a while, it's a real treat to get some quality time with one of them. The DM is off to Virginia to get her hair chopped off, and she took the young shorty with her, so I got to spend the afternoon and evening with the kindershorty. Here she is:


Isn't she a little sweet pea? She was at my office for hours, waiting patiently as we pushed to finish a book by deadline. (We did it. Nice work, J-Ko and Hoop.) Then we went downtown and had ice cream cones with sprinkles (her) and crunchies (me) while walking down High Street and talking about things and people we saw. We sang "Country Roads" almost the entire ride home, then after she aced her sight words (homework in kindergarten!), we went upstairs and did somersaults onto the bed. I'm officially old now that I get dizzy from doing somersaults.

She asked if she could go to sleep in our room tonight, and I of course let her. We read a book about Little Bear, then talked about the imaginary Cloud Town we started inventing last night when she couldn't get the image of Big John's ghost out of her head and was afraid she'd have "terrible dreams." We turned the light off and I sang "Wonderful Tonight" and the theme song of Cheers to her. I have no idea where that one came from. She fell asleep and I made it downstairs about a minute before kickoff.

What an awesome night.

Holy Hail!

What a storm we just had! I thought for sure my car was jacked, but it seems to be fine. The hail stones were sort of like small marbles. It was pretty intense!

The Heely Debate

You've seen kids Heelying around town. One second they're walking normally, and the next they hop back on their heels, wheelie their toes up, and voila, they're Heelying down the road.

I'd always thought these were just for kids, but then my friend spooge got a pair. He's 35, and they're size 12.

At first I laughed at him. But if you know spooge, you know that if any adult can pull of Heeleys, he's the one. Turns out he pulls them off easily. I went down to visit him last week, and he wore his Heeleys out on the town. Want another beer? spooge Heeleyed right up to the bar. He was having a blast.

Later that night I tried them on, as I wear size 12 too. And you know what? They freakin' rule. No joke, I love those things. I could ride them right off the bat. But I'm also 35, and I'm just not sure I can pull them off like spooge can.

To Heely or not to Heely. That is the question.

Hot Spots

I almost hate to write this post because I think it could support negative stereotypes of West Virginia, but we've got a bizarre thing going on that's just getting out of control. I know this is happening in other places too, but I'm not sure how widespread it is.

A few years ago legislation passed that legalized video gambling machines in small doses. Naturally bars started taking advantage of it, and it didn't take long for a whole new breed of place to open: the hot spot. These new gambling bars often go into some pretty weird locations, spots that would never host a bar otherwise. It's pretty insane how many of these places are popping up.

There's a three-mile stretch of road on the way to my house, partly commercial and partly low-income residential, and there are six of these places on that route. Check 'em out.

This place used to be a used-car lot:



Here's where someone put one in a gas station:


I really don't know what kind of building this one was. Maybe a house?



Old retail plazas are prime locations for hot spots, like this one:



This was a little NASCAR restaurant that converted. Cool paint job on the garage door:



So I was driving down this road the other day and I noticed a guy painting his place in WVU blue and gold. The Dalai Mama noticed the same thing and mentioned it later that night, because it was just strange. It wasn't until a couple of days later that we found out why he was painting it that way:



Yes, it's a trailer. And not a modular-in-a-commercial-lot sort of trailer, but a crappy-old-trailer-park sort of trailer.

I'm going to start calling them crack houses, I think. Seems applicable.

Batman and the Yellow Sports Wagon

It was the summer of 1989, just before my senior year in high school, and I was 17 years old. The greatest week of my year, camp week, was but a few days away. I was on top of the world. Then I woke up with a sore throat. A very sore throat.

At first I held on to hope that it would clear up, but it didn't take long for me to realize that this wasn't just an ordinary sore throat. Within a day I was admitted to the hospital with a hard-core case of mono.

Not only was I devastated to have to miss out on my yearly camp experience, but I felt absolutely miserable. My throat got so bad that the only thing I could eat for two days was whipped cream. I was so worn down that I could barely walk to the bathroom. I'd end up spending three or four nights in the hospital, watching the summer days pass outside my window and thinking about all the awesome things I was missing. I sank into a pretty deep depression.

During this time, there were only two things that made me feel better. The first was my nightly dose of Demerol and the second was knowing that Batman, starring Michael Keaton, was due to be released soon.

For some reason, I was just crazy about this movie. I wasn't even into comic books, but when I heard this film was coming out, I got all amped up. Somebody brought me a copy of Premiere, which had Batman on the cover, to read in the hospital, and I kept telling myself that I'd know I was on the road to recovery when I was finally well enough to catch this flick.

Anyone who's had a bad case of mono knows that recovery comes slowly, and after I got out of the hospital I was laid up for a good week or so before I could do much of anything. Eventually I started to come around, though, and as soon as I was remotely well enough, I called my buddy Raoul Duke (pictured). Time to go catch Batman!

We usually went to see movies in Fairmont, which was 20 minutes up the freeway, just because they had chairs that reclined back and it was always cool to leave town by ourselves at that age. Good ol' Raoul swung by my house and picked me up in his good ol' Yellow Sports Wagon. My recovery was under way -- everything was going to be okay.

Before he picked me up, I specifically remember looking at the thermometer, and it was a scorching 104 degrees Fahrenheit (40 degrees Celsius). As we embarked on our journey to my well-being, I remembered that the Yellow Sports Wagon wasn't equipped with air-conditioning. Oh, well. The fresh West Virginia air would probably do me good, even if it was packed with 98 percent humidity.

As I reached down to twist the window's handle, Raoul said the following:

"Uh, what are you doing?"

I sort of looked around to see if there was someone else in the car he could be talking to, but when I realized that he was indeed talking to me, I answered:

"Uh, putting my window down."

"Oh. Yeah. Well, see, I'd really rather you didn't do that."

"Dude, shut the eff up!" I reached down again toward the window. He slowed the car down and said:

"I'm serious. I don't want the window down."

"What? It's 104 degrees! I'm freaking dying here! Why don't you want the window down?"

What Raoul didn't know was that I had a tape recorder going at the time, secretly recording our conversation. After nearly 20 years of keeping the existence of this tape a secret, I'm bringing it out right here on RtN. And I'm going to uncover it by playing Raoul's actual answer as to why I couldn't put the window down in this extreme situation. This audio recording hasn't been manipulated in any way and is 100 percent authentic.

Click here to hear Raoul's response.

It was his car, so I relented. My throat started to swell. After a few miles, I started to hyperventilate, and soon I was hallucinating as we raced zebras up the interstate. Eventually we made it to Fairmont and to the theater. As the door of the Yellow Sports Wagon opened up, I looked like an Army recruit fleeing from the tear-gas house at boot camp. I was lying in the parking lot, gasping for air, my throat well on the way to swelling shut again.

Raoul said Batman was great, at least as far as he could tell, since he spent the whole movie making out with some Fairmont chick in the back row. I wouldn't know, because I spent those same hours recovering on a cot in the theater's office. But I wasn't mad. Raoul's perfect hair got him the girl, and as a best bud, if you can't make a sacrifice for the greater cause, what kind of friend are you?

The Motorcycle Wave

As anyone who rides street motorcycles knows, there's a camaraderie between riders that is most visibly expressed through the "motorcycle wave," which good ol' helmetless St. Nick is demonstrating for us in this illustration. It's usually sort of low, off to the side, with a couple of fingers out, and non-riders can think of it as a sort of Fonzie-"heeeyyyy!" for the two-wheel set. (If you drive a Beetle or some other distinctive car like that, you've got your own little thing you do when you pass the 'others.')

I like this tradition. It's a nice acknowledgment that, at that very moment, the other person on the bike is probably feeling similar to how I'm feeling. We're sort of sharing an experience, and it's cool throw out a little I understand.

But not every rider does it. Sometimes you'll throw out the motorcycle wave and it isn't reciprocated. Why? Maybe the dude on the Harley thinks he's too cool for a Triumph. Maybe the squid on a Gixxer with the t-shirt and shorts thinks he's too fast for a Triumph. Maybe the dude on the custom chopper thinks he's too unique for a Triumph. Or maybe he just didn't see me?

For a long time I'd feel a little silly when I'd wave and the other person wouldn't wave back, so I started trying to predict. If it looked like the wave wasn't going to happen, screw it, I wasn't waving either. There were probably occasions where I saved a wave that would have been unrecognized, but there were also occasions when I noticed at the last minute that the other guy did throw out his hand, and all of the sudden I was the guy who didn't wave back.

I don't like that, so last week I made the decision that I'm going to wave every time, no matter what. Since then, I've yet to have one unreciprocated. I don't know if this is some form of karma, but I'm feeling pretty good about it so far.

Camp Days

From the time I was in seventh grade to my final year of high school, I went to a church camp called Camp Luther with my buddy the Lutheran. I still find it hard to believe that the place existed.

It was held in the beautiful hills of Cowen, West Virginia, and in many ways it was like any other church camp. We had daily devotionals, sang "Pass it On" around camp fires, played four-square and basketball and softball, ate together in a cafeteria ... those things probably happened at every single church camp that has ever existed.

But, man ... there were some ways that it was very much different, at least once we were in high school and made it up to senior camp. For example:

Smoking? No problem. Anyone in senior camp, including campers, was allowed to smoke at will. Camp counselors would pick up cigarettes for the kids when they went into town. The barn that held our morning devotionals had a smoking section one year.

Making out? No problem. We had two dances during the week, one on Tuesday, and one on the last night, which I believe was Friday. During these dances, every year, I openly made out with whoever my girlfriend of the year was. (Classy!) The dances always ended with "Stairway to Heaven" (what else?), and one year I remember making out with Jannasue Owens for the entire duration of the song.

That same year, there were two girls to every guy in senior camp. This meant there would be a chance that some girls didn't have boys to dance with. How was this resolved? The camp administrators organized a simple game of flag-chase. Every boy attached two flags (think flag football) to their wastes, we all got out in a field with all of the girls, and at the whistle, everyone started running. Whichever two girls got your flags were your two dates to the Friday dance. I got very lucky and scored Jannasue Owens and her blonde friend, but it was Jannasue I ended up sharing that memorable last dance with.

Cussing? No problem. We could say whatever we wanted to say in camp. No swear word was off limits, even during religious discussions. I remember hearing counselors and pastors swearing. One year we had a skit night, and the raunchiness of the skits was astounding. One involved a remake of I Love Lucy that involved a live theme song touting a specific body part that was "so nice and juicy." One girl played Lucy, one guy played Ricky, and they used a can of whipped cream as a prop.

Simulated sexual acts by high-school kids? No problem.

This sounds far-fetched, but it's absolutely true, and I'm sure there was more crazy shit that I just can't think of right now. The place was just an anomaly. My pal Raoul Duke was there when he was younger, but he bailed before the good stuff happened. Still, he always heard the stories. I'm still great friends with my buddy the Lutheran's older brother, and he was there -- he can vouch for this.

I really don't know what their reasoning was for allowing, and sometimes encouraging, this sort of thing at a church camp, of all places, but I'd guess it had something to do with the belief that if they just let the kids actually be themselves, maybe they'd open up and learn something. I'm not the church-going type now, so I don't think that tactic worked, but one thing's for certain: as far as I was concerned, Camp Luther ruled, and going there was the single most highly anticipated event of the year for me.

My Bonnie

Two days ago we were hit by the biggest snowstorm of the year, but today we reached 60 and I could smell spring in the air. Spring means lots of good things, from warmer weather to more sunlight to blossoming trees and so much more, but for me, the best thing of all is getting back on my motorcycle. I have an '04 Triumph Bonneville T100, just like the one pictured but a few years older. Clearly it's got a vintage look to it; it doesn't look much different than the ones Steve McQueen used to ride so passionately. Before I take it out, though, I need to get it up to Wexford, PA, to have the dealer give it the once over, because I don't know the first thing about keeping my bike running smoothly and safely. It just so happens that my boss has a Ducati 749S that needs a little love, too, and there's a Ducati dealership in Wexford as well. It might even be the same place -- I'm not sure. So we're going to take our bikes up at the same time in the back of his new Toyota truck, which is supposed to arrive in a week or so. What a sight that's going to be -- a vintage looking Brit bike, bare bones as a new bike gets, and an Italian work of art and speed that's worth nearly three of my bikes and goes nearly twice as fast.

Bossman likes his Duck, and I think it's pretty cool too, but as far as I'm concerned, my Bonnie is the best bike in the world. And when I fire it up and feel the fresh West Virginia air flowing up my sleeves, and across my face, that's when Spring will really be here for me. I'm not sure how much longer I can wait.

King Kenny & the CAC

An announcement I saw in Corridor magazine today got me thinking about the first singer I was ever really into: Kenny Rogers. The Gambler himself is coming to Morgantown to play the CAC on March 10.

The pictured album was one of my first records -- I was eight when it came out -- and it was the only Kenny Rogers album I ever listened to. But I listened to it a lot. I was partial to Coward of the County, no so much because I liked the simple tune, but because I liked the idea of the little guy who was trying to make his dead father proud standing up for himself and putting the Gatlin Boys down in a bar -- all of them! -- for the honor of his lady. (I'll get to "Lady" in a minute, don't worry!) Hey, sometimes you gotta fight when you're a man.

I also liked the sappy stuff. I can still remember every word to "She Believes In Me" and "Don't Fall In Love With a Dreamer," and I promise you it's been 20 years since I've heard them. I'd pay ten dollars for either of these songs to come on the radio while I'm driving. You'd probably pay ten to not be in the car.

Just like he started the album with "The Gambler," which is certainly his calling card, he finished it with another knock-out punch, "Lady." The song begins dark, pensive, indebted, as Kenny opines:

Lady, I'm your knight in shining armor and I love you
You have made me what I am and I am yours
My love, there's so many ways I want to say I love you
Let me hold you in my arms forever more

But then he turns it on. He gets bold. He steps it up, just like the Coward of the County did, to lay it all on the line for his lady. The grand finale, not just of the song, not just of the album, not even just of Kenny Rogers' illustrious career, but perhaps of the formative years of my life as a music fan, are Kenny's final lines of the song:

Lady, your love's the only love I need
And beside me is where I want you to be
cause, my love, there's somethin' I want you to know
You're the love of my life, you're my lady!

He starts by sacrificially saying "I am yours" and he ends by telling her where he wants her to be and what he wants her to know! She probably didn't even know he'd flipped the deck on her! She was too busy melting to see it coming!

Okay, I exaggerate. And the song is cheesy as hell now, just like the rest of them. But I remember them all fondly regardless. Not enough to go to the show in March ... but almost.

Naming a Stranger

My wife and I were in Virginia over the weekend, and while walking through a Books a Million, I heard somebody say, "Excuse me, sir?" I looked over and there was a dude and his better half, sitting in lounge chairs with a small stack of baby-name books on the table between them. The guy looked at me and said, "So, like, you're good with like grammar and stuff, right?" I was surprised -- maybe it was my glasses? Anyway, I said, "Yeah, I guess, I'm an editor." He was like, "Perfect. My wife and I are trying to pick a name for our daughter. My wife is Tanya and I'm Bryan ... "

Me: "Hey, I'm Bryan, too."

Him: "How you spell it?"

Me: "With a Y, you?"

Him: "Damn! With a Y! I talked to the right guy! Anyway, we want to name her 'Tabria,' which is a cross between our names,but we're not sure how to spell it. Is there any way to spell it with a Y? Could we go with Tabrya?"

Me: "Only if you want people to call her TaBRYa her whole life. But you're Bryan with a Y, and it's sacrilige to spell it with an I.

He agreed, and after some deliberation, I presented them with:

Tabreeya. Sure, they could go with Tabriya, but that puts the I before Y, and anyone who's ever been named Bryan with a Y knows that's just not acceptable.

Anyway, his wife loved the spelling, and he was also stoked to have a solution, so I think it's a go. So, while I might not have exactly named a little girl I'll never see, at least I helped!

Revealing Roy

My mother-in-law came up with the best explanation for Roy yet -- a paintball. I don't know what a paintball would look like in near dark, but if it would have any kind of glow to it at all, then it's a perfect explanation.

More Thoughts on Roy

If you've read my previous post and the comments, you'll know that I've named the mysterious "light" I saw a couple of nights ago Roy. (Roy Orb, to be exact.) I'd like to clear up a couple of things about this.

First, I'm not joking about this; it happened just like I said. I don't know for sure what shape it was, and after driving back by there yesterday, I can't even remember exactly where it happened. But it did happen.

Also, I know there have been a lot of reports about mysterious lights in the sky, and the Air Force has taken responsibility for these. What I saw was right in front of me, not in the sky, so I think we're talking about different things altogether. I guess it depends on just what kinds of weapons they're testing.

Next, after talking it over with my co-worker Billy, I stumbled upon a possible explanation. Based on the way the light moved, and its speed, it could have possibly been an arrow painted with some sort of glow-in-the-dark paint. I'm not sure how glow-in-the-dark paint works, but if it's like other glow-in-the-dark stuff, I assume it would need some sort of light to "ignite" it. So, maybe, somebody was in the woods with a flashlight and a painted arrow and they decided they were going to try to mess with the next sucker to drive by.

If that unlikely but at least possible scenario happened, then the bastards were successful, because I can't seem to stop thinking about this.

Other possible explanations are quite welcome.

UFO

I was driving home from Lowe's at about 5:45 this evening, moving toward my house on South Pierpont Road, when the strangest thing happened. After 34 years, I've had my first experience that I just can't explain. (Not including the time I dated that girl Kim. I'm not sure what that was about, either.)

An oddly bright pink or orange ball of light flew past my car, in front of me, like a bird would, about a foot or two off of the ground. I couldn't tell how big it was -- maybe softball or soccer-ball sized. It was moving very fast, much faster than a bird.

My first thought was: Was that one of those red laser-light pointers? But it wasn't. I mean, it absolutely was not on the ground. It was in the air. And it was bigger, and the color was way different. I think the color may have been the strangest thing about it. It gave me chills.

A couple of hours later, at home, the remote control for my iPod speaker dock fell off the TV and landed in the dogs' water bowl. And when I looked in the room, nobody was there! I'm wondering if the incidents were related.