...like the corners of my mind...meow...
So thinking about memories made we want to get some down before I forget them for good. I often forget these stories until someone reminds me. Then it all comes flooding back like a spring gully-washer.
Ok, so I was a young fella, maybe twelve. I was messing about in the forest with some pals. We were doing whatever it is that young dudes do; chopping at ferns with sticks, catching tree frogs, spotting birds. We ended up deciding to throw rocks at a nest of yellowjackets. After a few direct hits, the troops were deployed and they came surging out of the nest ready to attack their marauders. Me and the gang proceeded to hop and swat in our avoidance of the angrily buzzing horde, eager to escape the eye of the swarm. When the assault subsided, we checked to see who had felt the wrath. Astonishingly, none of us had been stung. It was at this point, after all the laughs and high-fives, that I detected a buzzing sensation near my face. Upon closer inspection it was determined that a yellowjacket had gotten tangled up in my hair during the melee. As I tried to extradite it from the ratty mess that was my coiffure, it stung the shit out of me. My face soon swelled up and I spent the next couple days enduring taunts usually reserved for children of the Corky persuasion. That is to say, I appeared to have down's syndrome (which is no laughing matter). Actually, nobody made fun of those kids. My friends were just giving me a hard time, something only friends can do--and in jest at that.
Ok, next story finds me in the seventh grade where my peers are beginning to exhibit signs of maturity and I am not. Our school, bursting at the seams with students, got these portable classrooms set up near the tennis courts and the track. These portables came complete with their own heating and cooling systems which were housed in big units on the side of the buildings. On our way to class one day, it was a hot day, a friend and I were milling about outside before the bell rang. The fan that brought in air for the A/C was seriously humming and we were just wasting time, waiting on the bell. But the hypnotic whirring was beckoning, calling to us. In the uncut grass that abutted the back of the portables is where all the dogs used to shit while their owners walked or jogged on the track after school was out. So one thing or another led us to start throwing turds into the fan. Like enterprising apes, we used rudimentary tools like sticks and scrap paper to fling more and more shit into the spinning blades. Shit literally hit the fan. To this day, I have no idea what possessed us to do it. Was it angst? Was it the ennui of a youth gone mild? Or was it just two kids siezing an opportunity to shake things up a bit? Either way, once the bell rang and we all took our seats, shit figuratively hit the fan. The room was stinky and kids started looking around at each other with those squished-up disgusted faces that say 'who farted?' Fingers were pointed at likely culprits and innocence was proclaimed. The whole thing turned into your classic 'whoever smealt it dealt it' blame game in which haphazard accusations fly back and forth, none sticking long enough before being deflected. It seemed that the more conviction the accuser displayed in his allegations, the more he absolved himself. Eventually, someone was heaped with the blame and branded a stinky-butted farter. The teacher opened the doors and windows and soon enough, everything aired out.
It's odd that a story like this next one would so often slip my mind (if only for the fact that it involves boobs) but I always forget it until my friend Amy reminds me when she says "ollie up these!" When I was going to college in Eugene, I lived down the street from my friend Beej, who lived with Amy and Emily. I was skating to their house, cruising fast and hopping and bopping down the street. As I was riding, some girls yelled at me. I thought they must be friends of mine since they were yelling so I stopped and picked up my board. I turned to face them and one of them lifted up her shirt, shook her boobs and shouted "ollie up these!" I was awestruck, this was rockstar shit. I just laughed and said something like "ok, cool." When I got to my friends' house, I recounted the events in detail much to their, and my, amusement.
This other time when I was skating in the exact same spot where the girl flashed me, I cut off this dude who was passing me on his bicycle. I couldn't hear him riding because bikes are quiet and skateboards are loud. We collided, he crashed hard and bled and I was totally okay. I felt kinda bad but he seemed cool with it. Oh well.
So thinking about memories made we want to get some down before I forget them for good. I often forget these stories until someone reminds me. Then it all comes flooding back like a spring gully-washer.Ok, so I was a young fella, maybe twelve. I was messing about in the forest with some pals. We were doing whatever it is that young dudes do; chopping at ferns with sticks, catching tree frogs, spotting birds. We ended up deciding to throw rocks at a nest of yellowjackets. After a few direct hits, the troops were deployed and they came surging out of the nest ready to attack their marauders. Me and the gang proceeded to hop and swat in our avoidance of the angrily buzzing horde, eager to escape the eye of the swarm. When the assault subsided, we checked to see who had felt the wrath. Astonishingly, none of us had been stung. It was at this point, after all the laughs and high-fives, that I detected a buzzing sensation near my face. Upon closer inspection it was determined that a yellowjacket had gotten tangled up in my hair during the melee. As I tried to extradite it from the ratty mess that was my coiffure, it stung the shit out of me. My face soon swelled up and I spent the next couple days enduring taunts usually reserved for children of the Corky persuasion. That is to say, I appeared to have down's syndrome (which is no laughing matter). Actually, nobody made fun of those kids. My friends were just giving me a hard time, something only friends can do--and in jest at that.
Ok, next story finds me in the seventh grade where my peers are beginning to exhibit signs of maturity and I am not. Our school, bursting at the seams with students, got these portable classrooms set up near the tennis courts and the track. These portables came complete with their own heating and cooling systems which were housed in big units on the side of the buildings. On our way to class one day, it was a hot day, a friend and I were milling about outside before the bell rang. The fan that brought in air for the A/C was seriously humming and we were just wasting time, waiting on the bell. But the hypnotic whirring was beckoning, calling to us. In the uncut grass that abutted the back of the portables is where all the dogs used to shit while their owners walked or jogged on the track after school was out. So one thing or another led us to start throwing turds into the fan. Like enterprising apes, we used rudimentary tools like sticks and scrap paper to fling more and more shit into the spinning blades. Shit literally hit the fan. To this day, I have no idea what possessed us to do it. Was it angst? Was it the ennui of a youth gone mild? Or was it just two kids siezing an opportunity to shake things up a bit? Either way, once the bell rang and we all took our seats, shit figuratively hit the fan. The room was stinky and kids started looking around at each other with those squished-up disgusted faces that say 'who farted?' Fingers were pointed at likely culprits and innocence was proclaimed. The whole thing turned into your classic 'whoever smealt it dealt it' blame game in which haphazard accusations fly back and forth, none sticking long enough before being deflected. It seemed that the more conviction the accuser displayed in his allegations, the more he absolved himself. Eventually, someone was heaped with the blame and branded a stinky-butted farter. The teacher opened the doors and windows and soon enough, everything aired out.
It's odd that a story like this next one would so often slip my mind (if only for the fact that it involves boobs) but I always forget it until my friend Amy reminds me when she says "ollie up these!" When I was going to college in Eugene, I lived down the street from my friend Beej, who lived with Amy and Emily. I was skating to their house, cruising fast and hopping and bopping down the street. As I was riding, some girls yelled at me. I thought they must be friends of mine since they were yelling so I stopped and picked up my board. I turned to face them and one of them lifted up her shirt, shook her boobs and shouted "ollie up these!" I was awestruck, this was rockstar shit. I just laughed and said something like "ok, cool." When I got to my friends' house, I recounted the events in detail much to their, and my, amusement.
This other time when I was skating in the exact same spot where the girl flashed me, I cut off this dude who was passing me on his bicycle. I couldn't hear him riding because bikes are quiet and skateboards are loud. We collided, he crashed hard and bled and I was totally okay. I felt kinda bad but he seemed cool with it. Oh well.
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