Home

The word “home” carries with it such comforting connotations. After a hard days work, I just want to go “home.” After a long and adventurous vacation, I just want to get “home” to my own bed. When I sleep at night, in my crazy dreams starring my wife and family, friends, and the occasional special guest star (Alan Alda has appeared more often than any other) and myself, I dream of “home.” While I lived in the Dominican Republic my waking and sleeping thoughts often led me to my “home” with my father, brothers, and sister.

Oddly enough, the “home” that I see doesn’t reflect my current living situation. Even though I love my house, my wife, my cat, my birds, and my brothers, I dream (as in asleep and dreaming) of another home. I dream of a home in a quiet neighborhood with a drive-in theatre at the top of the street. I reminisce about the big tree in the backyard where I could climb up high and escape the world below. I see the home with a dog in the backyard, and many lost Star Wars action figures under the big bush in the front yard. I dream of the home where I grew up in Lakewood, Colorado.





More than ever I find myself daydreaming over this home. It wasn’t just a three bedroom, one bathroom house that six kids and my dad occupied. This structure served as a person factory: a place that manufactured six responsible, mature, adults…okay maybe two or three, but a 50% success rate is pretty high in the research and development field.

My Dad started the mortgage on his house back in 1968. Real estate back then showed a different face than it does today. Though his monthly rates varied, they never topped over $100. As our family grew from four, to five, to six, to seven, and eventually to eight people, we learned to make do with the limited space. Two bunk beds sat in one bedroom, and two beds in the other (Anna’s room). The brother who slept in the room with the baby (Anna) was the brother who had to get up the earliest. I had a paper route for a couple of years, so I occupied that bed for a while.

When my Dad and Mom split, all six of us stayed with Dad. Mom told us that Dad was crazy possessive about the house, and didn’t want her changing a thing about it. During the 1980’s and 90’s he had a couple of opportunities to remarry, but when talk turned to selling the house to make room for the new additions to the family he called off the engagements. I always thought that he was over-attached to the house; I didn’t know that he made a salary of $12,000.00 a year—and that made us poor.

When Dad did remarry in 1999, I questioned whether or not he would actually make the vows. I asked him what he planned on doing with the house. He said that Larry and Darin would live there, and he would move into his new wife's house. That’s when I knew that he had really decided to get married: to leave his home—unthinkable.

I know the reason why I think so much on this home these days: I am selling it. My dad died last October and I have the dubious honor of being his chosen representative for the estate. Brad came down from Alaska and put a lot of time and energy into cleaning up the house. We had it on the market for less than 72 hours before we got a good bid. I accepted the bid and now we are working towards closing the deal.

I have mixed feelings: on the one hand I've had a lot of stress dealing with the end-game of my father’s financial life. I know that we need to sell the house, and I am relieved to see that it has gone so quickly in this slow real estate market. On the other hand, this is the home of my childhood. I stand at the base of the big tree and wonder that I ever dared to climb so high. I look at the yard and think of all the fun of playing with the dogs of my life, and my Star Wars guys. My kids will never know the joy of this home…so I will have to teach them the joy of our home—the home where we live. Hopefully they will base their dreams in that home.

Still…I am going to have the bushes removed in the front: I want my Star Wars men back.

The Courtship

I had known for some time that I wanted to marry Jen. We both, in fact, knew for a long that a happy marriage awaited us. We only had a few obstacles that kept us from kneeling at the altar: about 3000 miles and the time it would take to finish our missions. I left for the Dominican Republic in November of 1993. Jen left for British Columbia in September of 1994. I would be gone a total of 24 months, while Jen would return in 18 months. Let me save you the calendar math: I would get home 3 months before her. Spending the time apart had its good points, but it also had some stark drawbacks.

We only had two weeks together, in person, face to face, before I left. We knew how we felt, but we didn’t really know each other very well. Sure we tried to fill each other in on our lives real quick-like, but it was a lot of information to disseminate in such a short time. It wasn’t until we started writing letters that we really learned about one another. I knew that she was from Hawaii, but I didn’t know that she lived on the north shore of Oahu, that her dad was her bishop for most of the time that she lived there, and that she spoke a strange language called Pidgen. I knew that she had only sisters, but I had really only met two of them (maybe three) before I left. I knew that she liked country music, but I didn’t know that it was a relatively new fad for her.

She knew that I had not been active in the church for long, but she didn’t know that I had once counted myself a Buddhist. She knew that I came from a big family myself, she even had met a brother or two of mine, but she didn’t know just how cool my family would treat her. She knew that I had played the part of rebel through my teenage years, but she didn’t know about the punk rock band and Mohawk.

Mostly we both were able to learn about how we felt about the Gospel of Jesus Christ. As we each learned something new from the scriptures, or had a testimony affirming experience in teaching the gospel, we didn’t hesitate to share it with each other. We also reaffirmed our love, often, just to let the other person know that we had never fallen out of love.

Those were the good points. Here is the formula for the bad stuff:

(Distance) + (Bad Communication) = “Dear John”

Yeah, that’s right; I got the “Dear John” with only 8 months left to go on my mission. To be fair, I prompted the letter with a poor-pity-me letter of my own that did not communicate well my emotions. She thought that my feelings for her had died, and did not want torture herself with continuing a unrequited relationship. I tried to write “Dear Friend” letters, but that was not how I felt. In the end we just stopped writing. The last quarter of my mission sucked. It just sucked.

I returned home, went on a date or two, but just couldn’t get Jen out of my heart. We had some unfinished business, namely eternal marriage. After being home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and not hearing from her for what seemed like forever, I did a no-no: I got a phone number for her and called her. We made small talk, and acted like we had no 900 pound gorilla sitting on the loveseat between us. Finally, as were about to say our good-byes, she did what I could not: she said that the letter had been mistake and that she wanted to come home to me. I could not agree with her more: both letters were mistakes and she should come home to me.

On March 28, 2006, on her birthday, she came home…to me. The night she came home I proposed. We weren’t exactly rich, so I bought her the best ring that I could. If you held it up to the light, squinted a bit, and looked real hard, you could see the tiny diamond in its loose setting. We married in June of 1996.

I knew that I wanted to marry Jen. I knew it.

All I Wanted Was a Kilt

Is that such a horrible thing? Is it so wrong to have wanted to wear a kilt to my wedding? I'm part Scottish, don't ya know...








Let me flash back to the blessed day. No wait...I will have to go further back still. Let me go back to when we met. No wait...she didn't like me then. So we will have to speed up a bit then to November 25, 1993.

By this time in my life I knew a few of things for certain: 1) that it was my birthday and I had just turned 24; 2) that in a couple of weeks I would be off to the Missionary Training Center in Provo, UT to learn Spanish and prepare for missionay work; 3) I did not want a girlfriend while I was on my mission. Guys who pined over girlfriends were lonely losers and I didn't want to be one. Besides, the only girl that I really liked thought that I was annoying.

Only really cool people can laugh at their own jokes...

So there I was ready to embark on a great new adventure. I had one date to go on before I left, it was more of a friend thing than anything and I almost cancelled. I went because there was talk of lasagna...and I am a sucker for lasagna. While we ate the phone rang, another friend of ours was "sick." Partly out of worry for our friend, and mostly because dinner was over and I only wanted the same for the date, we offered to take her some food.

The "sick" turned out to be a surprise birthday party for me. Lots of people were there, some of which I actually knew, and one of them being the only girl that I was interested in at the time. That is the night that it all started...still, I did not want a girlfriend.

Now flash forward two and a half years: June 29, 1996. After writing that girl and pining for her for two years -- After I finished serving my mission and she had even come off of a mission of her own -- we had set the date for marriage. We would marry at the Denver Temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. She would wear white and I would wear a tux.

No, not a kilt, but a tux.

So that you all know: we did not fight bitterly over my attire. No, I would not celebrate my Scottish heritage by wearing the costume of my forefathers and eating haggis. I would stand and beam lovingly at my new wife, marvel at the beauty of her in her white lace wedding gown, and wonder how I got to be so lucky to get to marry Jen.

Maybe I will wear a kilt at our 50 year Anniversary. Happy 12th anniversary, baby!

To Be a Teacher...

A large part of me really wants to teach. I loved my two years in the Dominican Republic as a missionary. Truthfully I served as kind of a “wandering teacher” of sorts. Not only did I teach the Gospel of Jesus Christ, but I taught people how to read, and how to speak English. Sometimes though things happen that are so reprehensible in the teaching profession, that I am loathe to join the ranks of the public school teachers…

Young Alex Barton, 5-years-old, has had some issues in school. A small part of it is because he is just in kindergarten…a hard first year for kids. The major reason why he acts out has to do with Asperger’s Syndrome—an autism spectrum disorder. His parents know that these issues exist: they search actively for answers on how they can help their little guy. The school administrators know that these issues exist: they have special resource teachers in the class to help him a “couple of times a week.” Then why does Wendy Portillo, Alex’s teacher, feel that she has to destroy the child to build up her power base in the class?

Wendy Portillo held a “town meeting” and a “caucus” in the class. She had each child speak in turn, with Alex standing in front of them, and tell what they didn’t like about Alex. Finally she had them all vote on whether or not Alex “deserved” to stay in class with them. They voted 14-2 to oust Alex out of class.

Did she teach them that the Constitution of the United States of America gives Alex the right to an education? Did she tell them that the same document denies her the power of class dictator, as well as denying them any voting rights as to whether or not Alex “deserved” to exercise his constitutionally granted rights?

No.

That does not even represent the most heinous abuse. When she asked Alex where he would go, now that the class had rejected him, he said that he would go to the office and sit with the principle. She then informed him that the office didn’t want him either. Not only did she take it upon herself to deal direct damage to a young child’s psyche, she dealt untold damage on the other children of the class. She has emboldened future bullies, and maybe shamed children into making bad decisions based on what the crowd around them does.

Here's a link to the news story that I found...
http://www.redlasso.com/ClipPlayer.aspx?id=dbf1f64b-7187-4bbe-a3e4-ae567c2f0cc9


The fact that the school’s administration did nothing punitive to teach this “teacher” the limits to her rights in that classroom sickens me. Usually I will not use the precious space of my blog for venting, but this behavior cannot go un-vented.

Do I want to join myself to administrations that condone such monstrous behavior? Will my tiny actions be noticeable in a morass of ugliness? I may not be able to change the entire educational system, but I can make a difference in the life of one such child like Alex Barton. I can dig a little deeper to find the patience to help him. I can challenge myself to nurture such a child. If my teaching can change just one kid’s life, then it is worth the effort to be a teacher.

With a Gleam in My Eye

“I remember where I was when Kennedy was shot.”

That’s a line that everyone from the generation before mine says with a faraway look in their eyes. Even if they voted for “the other guy” they all remember that day in November when an assassin’s bullet killed our president. I can’t say it, because I was not even a dream in the back my young mother’s mind on that day.

We that the media calls “disaffected Generation Xers” weren’t born back then and don’t have any president’s in our memories who suffered death from the hands of crazed fanatics. Isn't it always the "crazed fanatic" who enjoys our freedom to bear arms a little too much? As a result, we all have to stretch a little to get our eyes to gleam while thinking of the leaders of our days.

Here is my short list of eye gleaming moments…

Anwar Sadat

On October 6, 1981, I was in the 6th grade at Eiber Elementary School. We had strange weather that day, strange even for weather in Colorado. The day started nice, got cloudy, dark, and eventually the sky turned a surreal shade of green.

I was in the “D” wing where we enjoyed art, bemused over science, and endured 6th grade English. I learned that day that the “D” wing had a great design flaw: the north facing walls were floor to ceiling windows. Not bad on a sunny day, but scary in a hail storm...and worse during a tornado.

I remember looking though a microscope that day and trying to figure out why the inner membrane of an egg had no cell structure. The air raid siren on top of our school went off, and Mr. Pecorelli (our oft-time brilliant yet mostly cranky teacher) ordered everyone to crawl under our tables. He brought down a small black and white television and turned on the news.

A tornado had touched down not far from our school and was making its way toward us. As if that news weren’t pressing enough for us, they local news cast was cut off by the national news service who announced that Anwar Sadat had been shot and killed during a parade in Egypt.

At the time I couldn’t even tell you who he was, what he had done, or why he was important enough to ruin a parade by killing him. That night I looked him up in my Dad’s encyclopedia set that we had just purchased. He was the president of Egypt, sought peace with Israel, and shared a Nobel Peace Prize for doing so.

I remember where I was when Anwar Sadat was shot.

Ronald Reagan

It was the hey-day of my bowling career. I, as a young 10-year-old, went from the last place team in the league in my first year of bowling fall/spring league to the 2nd place team in my second year. I credit my private coaching, lots of practice during the week, and switching teams.

On one such day, in March of 1980, I was with my Mom, brothers, and sister at Holiday Lanes getting in my practice. We bowled in the lanes just opposite from the bar, so we had access to the televisions. We were in between frames, waiting for my brother Greg to wipe down his precious ball, when all action on the bowling alley ceased.

Someone had shot Ronald Reagan while he was walking out of a hotel in Washington D.C. I knew who he was, even as a 10-year-old boy. I knew that he was the President of the United States of America. I knew that my parents had voted for him. I knew that he had only recently become president. I just didn’t know if he would live.

Of course he did live. He lived to become, arguably, the greatest president ever (in the eyes of the current GOP regime.) He somehow slept through the taint that was Iran-Contra (of course he wouldn’t need to dirty his hands with that muck.) He brought about the end of Soviet Russia (well, it made for a cool Roger Waters show at the Berlin Wall.) At least we can all agree that he had great hair (which is all that mattered in the 80’s!)

I remember where I was when Ronald Reagan was shot.

HEARTS

There’s a trick to playing Hearts…it involves paying attention.

In 1989 I spent 10 days as a guest at the Jefferson County Criminal Detention Facility. Saying it fancy makes it seem less like jail. The reason why the judge invited me to stay has no real importance right now, let’s just say I did something stupid and followed up with even more stupidity.

Anyway, in the common room of the module, at a table strategically situated near the bathroom, four men sat and played Hearts. The played everyday…all day long. When the time came for lockdown or lights out, they would place whatever they had in their hands face down and go to their private cells. As soon as the time came to resume activity in the common room, they would take their positions at the table and continue the game.

No one knew when the game had started.

The only way to get into the game was through an invitation from the group. The only time a spot came open was when one member of the table got his walking papers and left the facility. They allowed no substitutes or sit-ins.

Early during my stay I wondered what would happen if somebody switched the hands, or messed with the cards on their way to lockdown. During my first trip to the chamber of near-death (otherwise known as the basketball court on the roof) I saw what would happen to an individual who tried such a thing. The game deteriorated into a mosh pit with an orange ball bouncing around. The offender had to be helped off of the court. The guards had nothing to say about the rough game…it was just cell block politics.

On day eight, a member of the table went home just as I was coming out of the bathroom. A man that was not quite as large or tattooed as the average Maori warrior told me to sit and play. I measured my five feet eight inches up to his better than six foot frame…and decided that I could learn to play Hearts.

In the first round I learned that I had to avoid the Queen of Spades at all costs. I didn’t want to take any hearts in my hand, either. I had to keep my points down. Sometime during the second round I learned that if a guy could take all of the hearts and the Queen of Spades in one hand, he would get 0 points and the rest would have 26. For some reason the other players who lost that hand blamed me for not taking the Queen when I had a chance.

Stupid me…how selfish could I get?

The last hand of the night gave me the opportunity to take all of the point cards, and deal everyone else 26 points. The reaction was better when I had blown the same hand earlier in the day. The call came for lights out and the other three men grumbled that they shouldn’t have asked me to play.

Apparently no one could rescind or reject the invitation to play. So when we came out of cells in the morning I took my spot and no one said anything. For the next two days I paid close attention. I won some hands, sacrificed when I needed to sacrifice, and lost enough hands to maintain a status quo. Day 10 came quickly from there, and I soon received my walking papers. No one said “Good bye” or “Good luck” or “Have a good time out there.” They just called someone else over to play.

I see now that Hearts gave me a social education of corporate America that I refused to learn outside of jail. I’m sure that the game goes on to this day. I hope that everyone is paying attention.

MOTORCYCLE

“It’s getting dark.” I said to Fa as we exited Gloria’s house. “We don’t want to get caught in the jungle after dark. You know what happens after dark, don’t you?”

“What?” Vuna Fa sounded a little incredulous. What would a 300 pound Tongan have to fear?

“Bad things man…bad things...” He and Glover lived closer to the beach than Corry and I did. Our house backed up to the river, and beyond that jungle. “You don’t hear the drums at night?”

I started moving towards the road, which lie in the opposite direction of the shortcut that went through the jungle directly to the river behind Enriquillo.

“I’m not green, Justo, I don’t get scared by that crap.” Fa said…not moving towards the road.

“Haitian Voodoo magic goes on in the jungle at night. They beat the drums and don’t invite any intruders.” So far I had said nothing to convince him. “A year ago Gloria’s husband came home from town after dark using the river trail…they haven’t even found all of his pieces yet.”

Fa didn’t take too long in thinking about that last statement, and he caught up with me to use the longer route back to town. We worked as missionaries in and around a small town called Enriquillo on the southern peninsula the Dominican Republic. Our official attire made us stand out among the local gentry: white shirt, tie, dress shoes, and slacks. We wore black nametags with our names, and the church that we served…though not that many Dominicans could read them to see who we were and why we were there. Still, they served their purpose. Everyone in town knew the four of us as “Los Mormones.”

We got to the dirt road and started double-timing it down the mountain. We were barely out of sight of Buena Vista when we heard a motorcycle come up behind us. We stopped to let it go by us and watched the driver slow down to talk to us.

“You don’t want to be out here at night.” He said in Spanish.

“We know,” I replied, “we didn’t pay close enough attention to the sun, so we are running back to down.”

“Hop on; I will take you both into town.” He said, scooting up to sit on the gas tank.

This was not the usual Honda Cub 50 bikes that we usually see around here. This was a Yamaha 300 series: practically a mini-van by Dominican standards. Still, with Fa at 300 pounds and me at over 200…conventional wisdom would scream “DON’T GET ON THE BIKE!”

Not much conventional wisdom makes it to the Dominican Republic.

I climbed on behind the driver, and Fa held on to me at the back end of the bike. We started down the winding road, gaining speed as the driver gained confidence in his ability to carry the load. As we dipped down and then back up in the hilly terrain, the sometimes paved road gave way completely to dirt. Then, as we topped a small rise to go straight down the mountain, the power to the motorbike cut out completely. No lights, no power brakes, and no control over the speed…as Jim Lovell said: we put Sir Isaac Newton in the pilot’s seat.

Initially the ride proved scary, but manageable. As long as Fa and I combined for over 500 pounds of weight, we wouldn’t lose too much control. But soon the road went from smooth dirt to washboard. Then it went from washboard to insane erosion. Despite the efforts of our weight, we bounced around quite a bit.

Fa fell off of the back.

With the driver sitting practically on top of the handlebars, what control we would have had
diminished almost completely. He did all he could to keep the wheel straight and not send us end over appetite down the hill. With me riding on top of the driver…well I wasn’t much help at all.

We started taking serious air. Every rut we hit sent us flying with no control over direction or speed. Every rock I saw seemed to have my name on it. I saw a lot of big rocks. What seemed like forever to me ended abruptly when the driver’s best efforts failed and we flew over the handlebars.

I rode the driver down the hill for a while, and then I fell off of him.

I rolled to a stop, and lay on the ground to wait for angels or something to come along and lead me to my final destination.

“Justo!” The only angels I heard sounded like Fa. “Justo, are you all right?”

Until that point I had felt no pain. Death has no pain, and if I had survived a 200 hundred yard fall down a mountain…then I should feel pain. Therefore, I must have died. At least those thoughts percolated through my mind as I lie in the rocky and rutted dirt.

Then the pain came. My leg hurt a little, a bit of throbbing just above the knee. Yeah…that was it. No pain beyond what felt like a soon-to-be bruise on my leg. I sat up as Fa reached me. He had some dirt on his white shirt…no blood, no guts, no bones sticking out where they should not.

“Yeah Fa, I’m alright.” I said as he helped me up. “I lost my watch, and the sole of my shoe is
holding on by a thread…literally. How are you?”

“I’m ok, just a fall ya know.”

Yeah…I knew.

“Where’s the driver?” I asked as I surveyed the wreckage.

Bits and pieces of the motorbike littered the road. We had nearly passed all of the way through dusk, and we couldn’t even find all of the pieces. In the middle of it all, face down in the dirt and unmoving, lay our driver.

“Fa…I think I killed him.” I said as we ran to his aid.

I learned from countless first aid classes from Cub Scout to Boy Scout that you never move an injured person for fear of turning a minor fracture in the head or spinal cord into a major (even deadly) break. Fa came from the school of Tongan first aid: slap him until he comes around.
It must be an island thing, because it worked. Fa had the Dominican on his feet in no time at all.

We moved around the road picking up pieces of bike and gave them to the driver who tried to put it back together like some motorized Lego toy. The whole time the driver mumbled about how the bike was his brother’s…and his brother would kill him.

Finally, night upon us, the driver kick-started the bike and it roared to life. He revved the engine and turned on the lights. The bike worked like before the accident.

“Do you want a ride?” The driver turned to us and asked with a smile.

CRISTO REY

Take a walk with me down a street that has seen me ambling down it so many times in the past. The people here call this barrio, or neighborhood, Cristo Rey. My shirt sticks to my back too…it’s the enfeebling combination of heat and humidity. You’ll get used to it. Let’s get moving.

Don’t let the noise alarm you, here in Santo Domingo drivers lean on the horn. They honk when they speed up, they toot when they slow down, and they beep when they turn corners. Small engine motorcycles, just a step above mopeds, zip in between cars on the jammed street. On the street level, soot and dirt cake the buildings, only allowing a smidgen of the once bright colors to bleed through the filth. Lift your eyes to the second level of the buildings and they reveal their intended colors: sky blue, hot pink, bright yellow, any color that both attracts and repels the eyes at the same time.

This street, Calle Trujillo, cuts through the city drawing a line between the various barrios of Santo Domingo. Most corners house music stores. Of course in this part of the world a man with a dual cassette tape recorder and a pile of pirated audio tapes constitutes a music store. They lounge on empty crates with audio tapes mounted on a piece of plywood behind them. Music down here plays from every doorway. Different music but the same sound: meringue. Horns play in staccato unison, and the voices of everyone’s favorite merenguitos (that would be people who sing meringue) battle for sound wave supremacy.

Let’s head down the street. The pharmacy to the left smells if lilac powder and a scent that Elizabeth Arden calls “Sunflowers”. The owner doesn’t sell the perfume; he just employs it to pull people in off of the street. How Elizabeth Arden managed to jam sunshine in a diffuser, I will never know. Pharmacies down here carry more than aspirin, toiletries, and Alka-Seltzer. Here pharmacies also offer bolts of bright cloth, machetes, books, 5 gallon bottles of water, Malta India, and anything else that you will ever need to buy.

What’s Malta India you ask? Ah…Malta, the magical (non-alcoholic) elixir brewed by beer companies for the discriminating South American palate. Malta gives a thick taste, like a very dark beer, then follows up that heavy flavor with a sweet molasses aftertaste. Put down 8 chilled ounces on a 95 degree day, and the magic comes to life.

Ahhh…Malta…

Grab a Malta and cruise towards the limpia botas: a group of young boys with shoe shine boxes. Put a foot on the box and let the boy apply dark polish to the shoe. The rich smell of the polish intoxicates, and the feel of the rub removes the walking sores. If it’s an older boy he may work so vigorously that you get a foot massage along with a shoe shine.

Go past some of the street vendors and see what fries in their vats today. Most likely you will find smashed green plantains, fried like thick potato chips. Or you may find empañadas with some sort of mystery meat tucked inside (have you seen your favorite stray dog today?) On a good day you can smell the mondongo: a much better application of tripe. The tube meat fries in fat, writhing around with the heat and popping with the oil. Find a vendor that you trust and pick up a little something to eat. Will you try the salted plantain, roll the dice on the empanada, or go for the big prize. I promise that mondongo’s soft texture will treat you right, just watch out for the bitter aftertaste. If you don’t like liver, then I don’t recommend it.

At the end of the street we reach our destination: Helados Bon. Come on in from the furnace of the street and get some ice cream. Here you choose from both flavors: vanilla and chocolate. The appeal of this spot does not necessarily include a wafer cone. No, stand here for just a second and wait for the shiver. It takes a concentration of frigid air to keep the ice from turning into soup in the Caribbean. Choose whatever flavor you like…I’m buying.

The Ballad of Wallace Thaddeus Linkletter

Wallace Thaddeus Linkletter
dreamed a brilliant little plan:
he would slay himself a dragon
and become a famous man.

He reflected on what he’d buy
with the dragon’s golden hoard:
a gazillion room mansion
and the title of Sir or Lord.

He would keep the finest stables
of the purest breed of stallions
and wear a snappy uniform
adorned with gold medallions.

His servants would all dress
in livery of the finest style.
His floors and walls would gleam
in designer mosaic tile.

Wallace Thaddeus Linkletter
could see his future clearly:
the world would know his deeds
women and children would love him dearly

Men would sit in bars and pubs
and regale his fell exploit.
Songs would praise his mighty glory
from Istanbul to Detriot.

The Queen from her mighty throne
would grant a holiday for his feat.
They’d march a parade in his honor.
down the city’s broadest street.

Of course the grandest mark of fame
a sign that there can be no one bigger
is when the stores stock their shelves
with the Linkletter action figure.

Wallace Thaddeus Linkletter
is still dreaming of his fame,
and that is why ‘til this day
you have never heard his name.

Phantom

After thirty-eight years, I still daydream. I used to dream of acting in cool and good looking parts, stuff that James Dean or a young Marlon Brando would have landed. I saw movies and TV shows and thought, “I can do that.”

Lately, those daydreams have changed to meaningful and ugly parts, like the Phantom of the Opera. Sure, I don’t have a Michael Crawford voice; likely I am still too young for the role; and no one wants to see a short and fat Phantom. But angst…I have moved on from beautiful teenage angst to middle aged, living in the dark sewers of Paris angst…

…and I think the mask is pretty cool, too.

CLOWNS

What is it with kids and clowns? Adults think that kids love them. The circus banks on the fact that kids care about the manic strangeness of masked maniacs. Rich parents always have to hire a clown to entertain at kids parties. What is it with with these made up, macabre, merry Andrews?

Most kids hate them.

Even before the television adaptation of Stephen King’s IT, Batman fought his evil clown enemy The Joker. Each child builds up their phobias in their own way. As for me and my phobia, it started well before “Poltergeist” came along.

I don’t know whether to blame my father or my mother. One of them (and they stand united in blaming each other) hung a picture of a clown over my bed as a child. Crafted with cut pieces of felt in vibrant primary colors, the clown’s big head and shoulders took up most of the frame with its wide eyes and huge grin. The guilty artist even put a distant circus scene in the background. Such a happy little scene alone would not have caused my heart to skip beats.

Add a little glow paint around the eyes and grin…

Bedtime did not come easy at my house. I knew that going to bed meant being alone with my two greatest nemeses: my older brother and that clown. My older brother never hurt me, per se, but he would have watched gleefully as the glowing eyes and wicked grin crawled out of the picture frame and devoured me in minutely painful nibbles.

I always fought the call to go to bed. I spent as much time brushing my teeth as I could. I became very picky about which pajamas I should wear to bed. Would the blue horses protect me better from certain fear? Or would my Snoopy fuzzies (with feet) be the answer? I tried to get my mom and dad into the habit of reading to us before we went to sleep…but they thought that reading the Bible or War and Peace would take away from whatever havoc parents raged after their children go to bed.

Eventually they would turn out the lights and close the door…leaving me to my own feeble defenses to pass the night. They usually ceded to my pleas to leaving the door open a crack and keeping the hall light on until I went to sleep. In retrospect, I am not sure that the light helped much. I could not look up, for that would engage the evil of the clown. I could not close my eyes; I did not want that clown to come at me with no fair warning.

My first option was to look towards the light peeking through the slender crack that my parents provided. I saw the same repeated images: someone walking up the hall towards our room. I don’t know who it might have been, but it was a large and wide person with either a hairy face or a ski mask. So a killer in a ski mask, Bigfoot, or Bigfoot in a ski mask became my only logical choices. Why did they sell ski masks in every K-mart if only the bad guys used them?

My next choice to diverting my eyes away from either the evil clown that would come out of the picture frame, or the oft repeated bulky stalker never quite made it to my room, was to look straight ahead. Any way I could figure it, I was dead. Towards the foot of my bed, on the opposite wall, the ever-open closet lurked. In daylight I could see the big sliding doors kept themselves jammed open with spilling toys, books, and never-worn clothes. Let in just a trickle of light from the hallway at night and I could see the closet for what it really was: the doorway to a world filled with tentacled beasts looking for small, dark-haired boys on which to snack.

At some point, every night, I would burrow deep into my covers, and pile my pillows and stuffed animals on top of me. I know now that it showed poor character, using my precious animals as shields to save my tiny hide. I really felt that I had no choice, and I made the choice every night.

I spent years with this as my frightful status quo. Even until I had finished grade school and prepared to enter the ever-confusing life of junior high school. That summer came the change. That summer came “Poltergeist.”

My brother and I went to see the movie. They rated it PG, and we were big enough to see such movies, so we went. The movie confirmed every fear that I ever had…and helped to create new ones. The malevolent clown, the voracious closet, the toys that terrorized the room, the television static, spirits meandering about the house…all of it corroborated. And I knew all along that something was not right with the tree outside of my bedroom window.

We came home late in the evening and I had already made up my mind: I would never set foot in my room without light again. When I went in to get ready for bed, the clown mocked me. I could hear its hollow cackle echo in my head. The closet licked its lips as I ran past it. The same thought pranced through my brain over and over again: no…not tonight…not ever again.

I sat up as late as I could. When my dad played his go-to-bed-or-get-spanked card, I seriously considered the spanking. Instead I told him that I was scared. He agreed that the movie might have been a bit much, and let me sleep in his room that night…and the next…and the next…

On the fourth morning, a Saturday, he finally played his biggest trump card: go-to-your-own-room-and-go-to-bed-tonight-and-I-mean-it. With his hand on his belt I could not argue against his position. I sat in my room all day and formulated a plan on how I would survive the night. I had most of the elements in place, I just needed a weapon. Then I saw key to my survival: my football.

I invited the clown to play a game of catch. Who knew that it would be so fragile? The clown screamed like breaking glass when the ball struck it. It slid behind my bed and I could hear the weeping, wailing, and gnashing its teeth in its death throes. Dad came in and lamented the loss of the precious clown, never once caring about the torment it inflicted on his second son for the whole of that boy’s life. I took the spanking well and spent the rest of the day in my room as a punishment. That’s okay; it was all a part of my brilliant plan. Over the next few hours I cleaned out the closet so that the door would close. I then jammed the door shut so that no tentacles could open the door at night and take me while I my false sense of security lulled me to sleep.

That night, bedtime came, and I did not fight it. I stripped down like an Indian warrior and prepared for the final battle to come: the stalking shadows. Phase three of my plan came when my dad asked if I needed the light on so that I could sleep.

No. Not that night. Not ever again.
I had him close the door, and keep the light off. In the darkness, the complete darkness that came with bedtime, nothing threatened to maul, grab, or eat me. For the first time in my memory I fell asleep without a pile of blankets, pillows, and stuffed animals on top of me. I slept the sleep of the brave: the same sleep that comes from a young Indian boy after his first buffalo hunt. My hunt did not include bows, arrows, and bison. My weapon: the football. My prey: the glowing clown of death. I slept victorious.

ASTROLOGY

What is my sign? I don’t know why so many people are interested in the date and time of my birth. What does it have to do with anything? I celebrate my birthday in late November…so to many people I qualify as a Sagittarius. I came to light in 1969…that means that I was born in the Chinese Year of the Rooster. I don’t know what any of that means. I just think that the sign a person recognizes to define their lives should conform to the individual…not the other way around. Let me tell you about my sign.

A week and a half after her projected due date, in November of 1969, and still my mother had not seen the birth of her beloved second child. She and my older brother lived with her parents in Edgewater, Colorado. She had passed her due date by so many days that my grandfather began to think of the entire pregnancy as a bad case of gas. No amount of spicy food would extricate me from the womb: I would come when I was ready.

Early in the morning of November 25, Mom felt strong indications came that that birthing time had arrived. That is to say: water had broken and great pain ensued. Grandpa loaded Mom in the back of his new Chrysler, the first new car that he had ever owned, and raced across town to University Medical Center in Denver. I can almost hear him shouting “Not in my new car!” while tearing through the winter streets.

Mom did manage to keep Grandpa’s backseats in pristine condition, but she had to work to keep me in place for the doctor to do his job. They rushed her into the hospital, and put her in the elevator to go to Delivery. The elevator doors closed and did not open again before I came into the world with a triumphant howl.

What sign was I born under? I would have to answer: 3rd floor.

Where to Blog

Yeah, so not my first spot in which to blog. I have a Myspace account...but I get a lot of Myspace trash sent to me. I have a Yahoo 360 that I really enjoyed...but apparently that is going away. I have a need to blog. Where to go to blog? How can I pass up the madness and just BLOG?

Blog.

I like that word. It's not a funny as Gugennheim...but who would visit the Blog Museum? I have chosen this as my blogspot. This is the place for me. I plan on VLOGGING someday (which sounds like an eastern block blog. It's not, but I am just not yet set up for a video blog at this juncture.)

So this is just an introduction. This serves as a starting point from which to spring my blog onto the world. From here you will learn the answers to such questions as:

What's my favorite pasta...?
Who makes me happy...?
Who do I make happy...?
Have I ever climbed that yellow tower at I-25 and Broadway...?
and the ever pressing:
Why Maddog Salamander?

Hold on to your toupee, here we go...