Cal's Cut

One of those stories that surfaces when other things are being mulled about. When I arrived in the dorms at the UofM in 1958 and got the room assignment I met the 3 guys that would be my cohort for the year. Tiger, Cal, me, and another guy that I can't remember.

When 4 guys meet for the first time to share an apartment a certain amount of "pissing on the post" occurs to establish pecking order. So we told lies and postured and drank too much in an attempt to sort out who was Alpha and so on. A few days into the term we were all sitting around the living room BSing and I was playing with my brand new shiny dissecting kit. Teasing needles, chain hooks, pins, forceps and a very sharp scalpel.

Cal was sitting next to me on the couch talking his usual trash about how great New Jersey was and how crappy New York was and generally being a pain in the ass. He took a look at the kit I was holding and said something about it being a "kids toy" or something to that effect. Said you couldn't cut ice cream with the scalpel and that his knife (in New Jersey at the time) was a real "cutter". So I said something like "May not be able to cut ice cream but it could cut you easy enough." His reply left no doubt that this was a challenge. So I very slowly drew the blade down his thigh, nicely exposed in a pair of shorts, and sliced open a 3 or 4 inch cut, deep enough to bleed. Because the blade was so sharp and the thigh poorly supplied with sensory nerves he didn't feel much. Then he looked at the cut and blood and screamed and ran to the bathroom. He came out several minutes later with a bunch of band aids on his leg.

We never had that conversation again, and Cal was wary of me. Didn't phase Tiger, though, and later in the term he tried to kill me with a tire iron and I tried to kill him with a machete. Another tale for another time.

Photo: www.haciendapub.com/medicalcuriosa.html

Shooting DePue

My family had a summer place out in rural Long Island in the middle of potato country a mile off the road and 120 feet up a cliff overlooking the Sound. Pretty busy in the summer around there, but the rest of the year it was pretty isolated. With so few neighbors and miles of farms it was the perfect place to hunt small game and plink.

One Saturday Max, DePue and I decided to drive the 70 miles for a day of shooting our 22s. Max didn't have a rifle, but I had 2 and Depue had several, so we each had one. It was a cold morning as we walked and talked and shot at anything that either moved or didn't. That didn't leave much out of danger. We didn't shoot at birds, though, or fruit still on the trees because the powerful long rifle hollow point bullets we were shooting had a long range. Instead we shot at targets on or near the ground. Things like rocks, rabbits, pheasants, quail, stumps or anything else in range.

Towards noon we were getting pretty cold so we went to the house to warm up. As you hunters and gun fanciers will know, there is a hard and fast rule about guns and houses: always unload before you bring a gun into the house. Period. No exceptions. And we followed that rule religiously. Now the house had been closed up for the winter so there was no heat, but there was an old cook stove in the kitchen that burned coal or wood. We started a fire in that and waited while the room warmed. In the mean time we sat around BSing and eating what ever we had to eat. When we finally got ready to go out and try to kill something we bundled up, picked up the rifles and walked out on the back porch. Max first, DePue next and me last. In a moment of stupidity I aimed my rifle (from 3 feet away) squarely in the middle of DePue's back and was going to snap the trigger and yell (to startle him) BANG, YOU'RE DEAD! As I was squeezing the trigger, I swear I heard my father say "Never point a gun at anyone unless you intend to shoot them". I pulled the barrel down and we walked out. Once outside we reloaded and that was when I discovered a shell chambered and ready to shoot. Had I pulled the trigger on DePue, a high velocity lump of lead would have shattered his spine or maybe hit his heart. I was shook up pretty badly, but never told him how close he had come to being shot or how close I had come to shooting him.

You expect stupid people to do stupid things, but sometimes not-so-stupid people do stupid things unexpectedly. I did something very stupid that day and was saved only by a last minute thought. I have never pointed a gun at anyone since then, and won't unless I mean to kill them.

Photo: 22rifle.blogspot.com/

Stealing the Pontiac.

Maxes father was a lawyer and worked in NYC. He took the train to work and left his car at the station. Like my father he left around 7am and got home about 7 in the evening. He always parked on the same street and if possible in the same spot. Habit. But, enough variation so that minor discrepancies went unnoticed. When school was out for the day, a bunch of us would walk to the station, find the car and drive around for an hour or 2. Usually the parking place was still there because the street was used for train parking and no one was going into the city in the afternoon. It was easy and we never got caught. Sometimes we would have to park in a different place, and occasionally we put something in the space like a garbage can or movable sign to hold it. His father never noticed.

There was another way we stole his car. Much more labor intensive and we always, read that ALWAYS got caught.

The garage where the car lived faced the backyard with a long sloping downhill driveway to the road. We would wait until well after supper for his father to settle down to TV or a book, and then push the car out of the garage, maneuver it around the parking area in the back, down the driveway and down the street. Then we would start it and drive around the neighborhood for a while. When we came back, we reversed the action. Turned it off down the block, pushed it to the driveway, pushed it UP the driveway to the back, rolled it around to get it in the garage, and there was his father, waiting in the garage. We caught hell, Max got grounded for a few days and we did it again. Got caught every time. His father must have been clairvoyant. Or could he possibly have heard the loud crunching of the tires and our shoes on the gravel driveway as we pushed the Pontiac? Must be that because he never figured out the other theft. And we never figured out how he knew exactly when we were coming up the driveway. Not until we were much older.

Photo: jfpoe.com/51pontiac.htm

The King of Atlanta

The King of Atlanta

And it came to pass that one day a prophet told the King that Atlanta (the Kingdom Better and More Valuable than All Others) was growing too fast and was soon going to run out of water.
The King had the prophet beheaded and said “Let it Grow”.
Another prophet came and told the King: Atlanta would soon be buried by its own garbage.
The King had the prophet beheaded and said “Let it Grow”
Another prophet came and told the King that the air in Atlanta would soon be poison.
The King had the prophet beheaded and said “Let it Grow”.
Another prophet came and told the King that sewage from the millions of people would soon poison the water and land.
You guessed it. Beheaded the prophet and said “Let it Grow”.
So it came to pass that the water ran low, the garbage piled up, the air became poisoned and the land and water became poisoned with sewage, still the King said “Let it Grow”.
When another prophet came to tell the King about the unsustainable number of people in Atlanta, all were dead.
The prophet called himself “King” and said “We must begin again. Let it Grow.”
Moral: Don’t tell a King what he doesn’t want to hear. It makes no difference anyway and there will always be another King to screw things up.

Photo: Belt buckle stock # BUCKLE W262SGP for sale at http://www.redelephants.com/

Last night the lights got dim.

Last night Ted Kennedy died. Viewed by many as more powerful than presidents, respected by liberals, moderates and conservatives and missed by all. He fought the good and just fight for every American. He won many battles. He was rich by any standard but worked tirelessly for others. Not everyone agreed with his politics, but all will agree that the world lost a great man last night. We are all diminished by his passing.
Dick Holler can add another verse to his passionate song "Abraham, Martin, and John" because as sure as I can be about anything, I am sure of this: If there is a Heaven, Ted is now walking with Abraham, Martin, Bobby and John.

Photo source: hubpages.com : http://z.hubpages.com/u/628490_f496.jpg

Piercing, Tattooing and the Future

I saw this photo years ago, then it was titled something like "Thank God for Mothers", meaning I suppose that no matter what, your mother will love you. It has been noted that I have a strange brain, that thinks of strange things at strange times in strange ways. Stipulated. This morning just before signing off for the day and getting down to business this image popped into my mind, and I wondered: all these years later what has happened to this person (guy, gal, intersex?)? If anybody knows I would sure like to know. Why? You would have to ask my brain that question, and it is not inclined to give out that sort of answer. I tried. It didn't work.

BTW, http://www.listverse.com/ is a rare place to peruse when you have a few minutes to spend. Some really interesting stuff.



Photo: http://listverse.com/2008/01/26/top-10-bizarre-piercing-images/

Pavo Puppy

In those days Sally had long blond hair. Just below the shoulder. We owned a run-down farmhouse with cats and desperately needed a dog (Ha!)

One evening we were headed up to Thomasville when Sal spotted something moving on the roadside. She said "I think that was a puppy." For the uninitiated that meant "Turn around. We have to save a life." So I turned around and sure enough there was a tiny puppy in the grass by the road. We got out of the Pinto and the pup retreated under some Kudzu. Sal followed. I heard a squeal as she picked it up (barely a handful) and nearly squealed myself when I saw it. Hairless, suppurating, smelly, crying and a grasshopper caught in it's mouth. Probably had tried to eat it but couldn't. I mentioned the possibility of leaving it or running over it and got the "British Glare". End of conversation. The pup crawled up under Sal's hair on her shoulder and hung on with it's tiny paws. I swear you could hear it purr. He told me: "My name is Pavo, and I will be your dog." And he was. For 15 years. Of course we all got mange mites but that was a small price to pay for Pavo, the best-est dog ever.

And "She Who Must be Obeyed" was right again.

I have been subjected to the British Glare since. Don't mess with Brits when they glare.

Photo: http://www.terrificpets.com/images/uploads/breeds_07248123800157_1.jpg

The Purple Cat

We lived in a fairly ratty house in a decent suburb of Gainesville. A couple of graduate students trying to get along on not much money. We had cars but rode motorcycles most of the time to save money and for the fun of it. The house had a gigantic fuel oil heater in the hall that kept the house warmish in the winter when we could afford to by oil. And we had a cat. Spook was a snow white kitten that we picked up somewhere along the way, the way most cats are picked up. From the start he was part of the family. Ate with us, played with us ("space cat" was a favorite game. We would toss him back and forth between us as high as we could safely get him. He loved it and so did we) and slept with us. On the pillow or sheet, moving back and forth from Bob's bedroom to mine as he wanted. He grew into a fine young cat, admired and known through the neighborhood. Who could miss a pure white cat? Well, as luck would have it, he picked up a fungus infection and a little nosing around in the Vet. Science department led us to Gentian Violet as a general topical for animal (and human) fungus infestations. We had lots of that in the lab, so decided to treat him ourselves. We also decided that the best way to get rid of the fungus once and for all times was to dip him rather than spot-treat. So we did. And ended up with a purple/violet cat. Head to toe. Bright. Now, we had no idea that once treated the dye would come off on everything Spook touched, which was everything in the house including any clothes in range. We had purple pillows, sheets, towels, shirts, couch, everything. But, we had absolutely no fungus. One day we got together enough money to get 50 gallons of fuel oil and I was out by the truck talking to the guy as he wound up his hose. The cat was under his truck, unseen by the driver. Suddenly, Spook ran out from under the truck, across the street and disappeared into some azaleas by the house. The guy looked puzzled, shook his head slowly back and forth and muttered "I gotta cut down on drinken". Maybe he did.

Photo: http://www.wildflower.org/, image # 10332