I've never had sympathy for the bored. Maybe because I grew up knowing that uttering the words, "We're bored" would sentence me and my sister to never ending yardwork or cleaning, I learned to amuse myself, or at least not let my parents know how dull things really were around the house.
This attitude carried over through high school. While other kids were complaining that the lack of teen dance clubs made our city as boring as a doctor's waiting room, I was amusing myself by skating, fishing, hanging out in the woods, driving to Tampa, and all sorts of other stuff. And who really wants to hang out at a teen dance club anyway?
Once we got older, my friends and I still managed to amuse ourselves, even in the old folk's home that is Bradenton. As punk rockers, we knew that nobody was going to provide a teen club we'd be comfortable in; it was up to us to create, to entertain ourselves, to make the most out of our surroundings. Plus, we just really liked playing pranks.
One Christmas break my friend Curt brought down a styrofoam head he found somewhere in Tallahassee. We took it to my parent's garage and went to work - my dad had this spray that advertised how it would eat through a styrofoam cup (that's how you knew it was working). We used that to make realistic looking eye sockets and a nose hole. We sprayed the head a couple different shades of whatever spray paint we could find, giving it a somewhat realistic decayed flesh tone. For the final touch, Curt had saved some hair from a recent haircut which we glued on the head in different places.
The final result looked better than we anticipated. Hell, it creeped me out, and I helped make the thing. We hid it in the garage and forgot about it until my sister went out to get some ice cream, saw it, and let out a scream that shattered glass throughout the neighborhood. If we could pass the crucial 15 year old girl test, we had it made.
Now that we had this grotesque head, the only problem was what to do with it. Where would our artwork get the attention it so richly deserved?
Why not Wal Mart?
The next morning we mixed up a gallon of fake blood. We also found some weird plaster and chicken wire cylinder in the garage which we decided to hide under a tarp as a fake leg, sort of a bonus horror. The plaster "leg" was about 4 feet long, so it didn't really work, unless you thought Manute Bol got dismembered in a Bradenton parking lot, but hey, this was an extra, so it was good enough.
We drove to Wal-Mart and set up the leg behind the store, pouring fake blood liberally around our crime scene. Since the leg was our lesser artwork, we gave it a less prominent billing, figuring the head would be found first.
The head went into a plastic bag soaked with fake blood which was placed into a shopping cart. Then like cops on a stakeout, we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Hey, how long was it gonna take for someone to notice a blood-dripping plastic bag in a parking lot, anyway? These unobservant people were totally messing up our opening.
After a while we figured we should make our own publicity and call the cops on ourselves.
In the days of payphones this was easy. I called the non-emergency number and tried to disguise my voice.
"Uh...yes, officer? I'm here at the Wal-Mart on Cortez and there's this...this thing. It looks like it's bleeding."
"Bleeding?"
"Yeah, it's in a shopping cart and it looks like there's a lot of blood around it. I mean, it's probably nothing and all, butmaybeyoushouldtakealookatitOKbye."
Then we settled back to wait.
We didn't have to wait too long. Actually, let me quote the Bradenton Herald from the article titled "Prankster Hits Bradenton Store:"
...When an officer opened the bag, Watkins said, "He turned his head and said, "I think it's real."
It wasn't. The head, it turned out, was made of plastic foam.
"They did a pretty good job as far as making it look like a decapitated head," Watkins said.
The practical joker apparently took a mannequin head, painted and molded it so that it would appear to be decomposed and put a wig on it, Watkins said.
So there you have it, our first review. The leg was found later, and just as we expected it was sort of anticlimactic.
Who says artists aren't appreciated in their own hometown? As a bonus, since Curt was in art school at FSU, he could count our juvenile prank as actual school work, so it was a win-win for everyone involved.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Runnin' with the Devil
Ran that race I was talking about. My only goal was to not walk, stop or pass out. I did way better than I expected, a new experience for me.
The thing was packed - over 18,000 people. Like everyone said, I spent the first mile or so dodging crowds and pretty much power walking while getting more and more frustrated. I didn't bring my ipod, so I had no idea how far or how fast I was going until I'd make it to a station, and even then I was lost since I would frequently lose track of how many miles I had run.
There were old people, little kids, people dressed up like Darth Vader, and some dude that would stop and do pushups every mile. Showoff.
I hadn't run a race since high school, and those were only 3 miles. Plus, high school was a long time ago. Here's a photo of our track team:
I didn't think I had trained enough. I only started a few months ago, and only made it up to 7 miles once, and this was 2.3 miles more than that. Plus, when I'd pass the stations, the digital readouts said my pace was much slower than what I should be doing to qualify for next year.
Through the race, Husker Du's "What's Going On" kept repeating in my head, along with the intro "Professor, what's another word for pirate treasure?" from some Beastie Boys song. I have no idea why that was in there, or why my mind wouldn't actually play the rest of the song. Other than that I worried if I could find my group after the race, since I didn't bring my phone. Was I going to have to walk home after this? Also, I was concentrating on not dying.
The bridge killed me, as I expected, and while technically I didn't walk it, I came pretty close. I also noticed my chest was stinging a little. No big deal, just sweat. After that it was pretty much done. I even had enough juice in me to sprint to the finish line, at least for a little while.
My time crossing the line was one hour and 32 minutes, two minutes away from qualifying, so I was kind of bummed. Plus, when I found my neighbor/coach he pointed out that I was bleeding.
He was right. I thought that red was just a design on the shirt. But no, that was from my nipples. Nobody warned me about that.
Later that day when the official results were posted, I found I actually finished in 84 minutes, which is pretty good, and I got a medal, which I can use to reenact the end of "Star Wars."
I've been pretty psyched since, even though it feels like someone transplanted the legs of a 90 year old man on me overnight. I actually set a goal, accomplished it, and did better than expected. This sensation of actually feeling good about myself is very strange and will take some getting used to. Do normal people feel like this every day? How do they get things done without constant self-doubt and low self esteem spurning them on to accomplish stuff?
I'm going to keep running, especially since the scales tell me I've lost about 15 pounds, even if I can't really tell, except my shirts don't feel as tight. Which is helpful, since my nipples still really hurt.
The thing was packed - over 18,000 people. Like everyone said, I spent the first mile or so dodging crowds and pretty much power walking while getting more and more frustrated. I didn't bring my ipod, so I had no idea how far or how fast I was going until I'd make it to a station, and even then I was lost since I would frequently lose track of how many miles I had run.
There were old people, little kids, people dressed up like Darth Vader, and some dude that would stop and do pushups every mile. Showoff.
I hadn't run a race since high school, and those were only 3 miles. Plus, high school was a long time ago. Here's a photo of our track team:
I didn't think I had trained enough. I only started a few months ago, and only made it up to 7 miles once, and this was 2.3 miles more than that. Plus, when I'd pass the stations, the digital readouts said my pace was much slower than what I should be doing to qualify for next year.
Through the race, Husker Du's "What's Going On" kept repeating in my head, along with the intro "Professor, what's another word for pirate treasure?" from some Beastie Boys song. I have no idea why that was in there, or why my mind wouldn't actually play the rest of the song. Other than that I worried if I could find my group after the race, since I didn't bring my phone. Was I going to have to walk home after this? Also, I was concentrating on not dying.
The bridge killed me, as I expected, and while technically I didn't walk it, I came pretty close. I also noticed my chest was stinging a little. No big deal, just sweat. After that it was pretty much done. I even had enough juice in me to sprint to the finish line, at least for a little while.
My time crossing the line was one hour and 32 minutes, two minutes away from qualifying, so I was kind of bummed. Plus, when I found my neighbor/coach he pointed out that I was bleeding.
He was right. I thought that red was just a design on the shirt. But no, that was from my nipples. Nobody warned me about that.
Later that day when the official results were posted, I found I actually finished in 84 minutes, which is pretty good, and I got a medal, which I can use to reenact the end of "Star Wars."
I've been pretty psyched since, even though it feels like someone transplanted the legs of a 90 year old man on me overnight. I actually set a goal, accomplished it, and did better than expected. This sensation of actually feeling good about myself is very strange and will take some getting used to. Do normal people feel like this every day? How do they get things done without constant self-doubt and low self esteem spurning them on to accomplish stuff?
I'm going to keep running, especially since the scales tell me I've lost about 15 pounds, even if I can't really tell, except my shirts don't feel as tight. Which is helpful, since my nipples still really hurt.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Sneaky Treats
We didn't have a lot of junk food in our house growing up. I don't remember if this was an actual rule or if my parents had some reason behind it or they didn't want us to grow up fat or if I'm just remembering the whole thing 100 percent wrong.
Our next door neighbors always had tons of junk food. Always. Man, did we love hanging out over there. Not only could we watch "Love Boat" and "Three's Company" reruns during the day which was forbidden at home, but we could eat Pringles and Twinkies while doing it. And their parents didn't mind at all!
Not to say that our parents didn't ever have treats, you just had to know where and when to look. Usually around payday you could find candy bars hidden under the vegetables in the refrigerator. If you got up on a chair and looked way, way in the back of the highest cabinet, you might find a bag of Tootsie Rolls. Sort of a last resort, candy-wise, but hey, it was chocolate.
This is how my sister and I learned how to bake. We started with Rice Krispie Treats, which were pretty easy. This brought up a new problem. We knew that if our dad found them, he'd eat most of our hard work (hey, maybe that's why there wasn't a lot of junk food in the house). So we'd clean everything up and hide the pan in my closet. For the next couple days we'd eat like kings. We'd also store pizza in there once we got older. It's a wonder we never caught salmonella.
We graduated into actual cakes soon after. We'd be up early on a Saturday waiting for cartoons to come on and end up baking a cake. Since we couldn't actually hide that in my closet, we had to begrudgingly share it with the parents who provided us with shelter, clothes, and the stuff to make the cake in the first place.
But sometimes we were either too lazy or didn't have the necessary ingredients to bake.
This led to my sister and I becoming very resourceful. On teacher work days when we were bored and hungry, we'd ransack the house looking for anything sweet. Cough drops would work in a pinch. We ate chocolate chips, boring old vanilla wafers, anything with sugar in it was fair game.
Then we stumbled upon a delicacy. Frozen chocolate frosting. My mom would buy containers of frosting and store them in the freezer until she needed them, unless we got to them first. We'd eat it straight from the freezer with a spoon - bending many spoons this way. After being frozen the frosting was chewy - sort of a cross between ice cream and candy. It was so awesome. We would finish up a frosting container in about a half hour (you'd have to eat it quickly because you didn't want it to unfreeze), watching TV and putting off our chore list until minutes before our parents would pull into the driveway.
Years later I heard a rumor that Prince was rushed to the hospital because he only ate containers of frosting for like six months. I do not know if this was true, but if so, Prince has quite a refined palate.
Looking back, I'm astonished that we didn't get up to 500 pounds in our reaction to our parent's no TV and no junk food rules. I mean, the second our parents left the house we were busting out the frozen frosting and turning on the TV. Maybe we had good genes or something.
Our next door neighbors always had tons of junk food. Always. Man, did we love hanging out over there. Not only could we watch "Love Boat" and "Three's Company" reruns during the day which was forbidden at home, but we could eat Pringles and Twinkies while doing it. And their parents didn't mind at all!
Not to say that our parents didn't ever have treats, you just had to know where and when to look. Usually around payday you could find candy bars hidden under the vegetables in the refrigerator. If you got up on a chair and looked way, way in the back of the highest cabinet, you might find a bag of Tootsie Rolls. Sort of a last resort, candy-wise, but hey, it was chocolate.
This is how my sister and I learned how to bake. We started with Rice Krispie Treats, which were pretty easy. This brought up a new problem. We knew that if our dad found them, he'd eat most of our hard work (hey, maybe that's why there wasn't a lot of junk food in the house). So we'd clean everything up and hide the pan in my closet. For the next couple days we'd eat like kings. We'd also store pizza in there once we got older. It's a wonder we never caught salmonella.
We graduated into actual cakes soon after. We'd be up early on a Saturday waiting for cartoons to come on and end up baking a cake. Since we couldn't actually hide that in my closet, we had to begrudgingly share it with the parents who provided us with shelter, clothes, and the stuff to make the cake in the first place.
But sometimes we were either too lazy or didn't have the necessary ingredients to bake.
This led to my sister and I becoming very resourceful. On teacher work days when we were bored and hungry, we'd ransack the house looking for anything sweet. Cough drops would work in a pinch. We ate chocolate chips, boring old vanilla wafers, anything with sugar in it was fair game.
Then we stumbled upon a delicacy. Frozen chocolate frosting. My mom would buy containers of frosting and store them in the freezer until she needed them, unless we got to them first. We'd eat it straight from the freezer with a spoon - bending many spoons this way. After being frozen the frosting was chewy - sort of a cross between ice cream and candy. It was so awesome. We would finish up a frosting container in about a half hour (you'd have to eat it quickly because you didn't want it to unfreeze), watching TV and putting off our chore list until minutes before our parents would pull into the driveway.
Years later I heard a rumor that Prince was rushed to the hospital because he only ate containers of frosting for like six months. I do not know if this was true, but if so, Prince has quite a refined palate.
Looking back, I'm astonished that we didn't get up to 500 pounds in our reaction to our parent's no TV and no junk food rules. I mean, the second our parents left the house we were busting out the frozen frosting and turning on the TV. Maybe we had good genes or something.
Friday, March 2, 2012
All Hit Radio
I went on a date a few months ago. You guys wouldn't know her, she's a model from Canada.
It seemed like things were going pretty good, although I'm always the last to know about stuff like that. At one point however, she dropped the question every music nerd paradoxically fears and desires (sort of like how we feel about women).
"So what's your favorite song?"
I froze up like a fourth grader in a school play. Favorite song? I knew this. My life has been a series of making lists of favorite songs, revising and editing them as circumstances change.
But now I was on the spot and couldn't think of a single song. Hell, I couldn't even think of a single note. Not a commercial jingle, ice cream truck horn, novelty ringtone, nothing. It's as if hundreds of years of recorded music had suddenly been erased from my brain. The Beatles, Beethoven, GG Allin, MC Hammer - all of these had been wiped clean from history and my consciousness.
I stumbled around for a while but never really came up with an answer. If there's one thing the ladies love, it's an indecisive man who can't answer a simple question
(Although I think I was able to salvage things a bit due to my shining wit, sparkling personality and innate sexiness).
Later, when it didn't matter, I was able to come up with some of my favorites, which brought up another whole series of problems. A favorite song has to be something that has staying power, so it can't be anything too recent. It also has to be something that you can listen to over and over again, no matter who does it. This is no easy task. I mean, sure, there are songs I like, but having to pick a favorite is like picking a favorite friend, or child, to actual grown-up, mature adults.
But I came up with a few anyway. "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" - by anyone, any version, "She Thinks I Still Care" - George Jones, "The Mercy Seat" - Nick Cave "Troglodyte" - Jimmy Castor, "These Arms of Mine," - Otis Redding, "Old Time Loving" - Al Green, "September Gurls" - Big Star, "Soldier's Requiem" - Naked Raygun, "Ex Lion Tamer" - Wire, The Theme to "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly," just about any version of "Amazing Grace."
Even after narrowing things down that far, I felt this list would change if I thought about it for a second longer. Hell, what about all the jams on my "Reggae/Ska/Rocksteady/Dub Summer Cookout Mix?" Those should be on there somewhere. And I'm a fairly happy guy, what's with all those depressing songs? Was I going to have to edit this list again? No, better just to keep it like it is and memorize it. Oh crap, I don't have any rock on there. What about "Jailbreak" by Thin Lizzy, or "Southern Girls" by Cheap Trick? Hell, what sort of list has no Buzzcocks? Or Husker Du? No "Freakazoid?"
I can see now why I froze up. This was just too much information for my mind to handle. At least she didn't ask me about movies. Aw crap, now I should start making and memorizing a movie list. I hope nobody wants any work out of me for the next two weeks.
It seemed like things were going pretty good, although I'm always the last to know about stuff like that. At one point however, she dropped the question every music nerd paradoxically fears and desires (sort of like how we feel about women).
"So what's your favorite song?"
I froze up like a fourth grader in a school play. Favorite song? I knew this. My life has been a series of making lists of favorite songs, revising and editing them as circumstances change.
But now I was on the spot and couldn't think of a single song. Hell, I couldn't even think of a single note. Not a commercial jingle, ice cream truck horn, novelty ringtone, nothing. It's as if hundreds of years of recorded music had suddenly been erased from my brain. The Beatles, Beethoven, GG Allin, MC Hammer - all of these had been wiped clean from history and my consciousness.
I stumbled around for a while but never really came up with an answer. If there's one thing the ladies love, it's an indecisive man who can't answer a simple question
(Although I think I was able to salvage things a bit due to my shining wit, sparkling personality and innate sexiness).
Later, when it didn't matter, I was able to come up with some of my favorites, which brought up another whole series of problems. A favorite song has to be something that has staying power, so it can't be anything too recent. It also has to be something that you can listen to over and over again, no matter who does it. This is no easy task. I mean, sure, there are songs I like, but having to pick a favorite is like picking a favorite friend, or child, to actual grown-up, mature adults.
But I came up with a few anyway. "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" - by anyone, any version, "She Thinks I Still Care" - George Jones, "The Mercy Seat" - Nick Cave "Troglodyte" - Jimmy Castor, "These Arms of Mine," - Otis Redding, "Old Time Loving" - Al Green, "September Gurls" - Big Star, "Soldier's Requiem" - Naked Raygun, "Ex Lion Tamer" - Wire, The Theme to "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly," just about any version of "Amazing Grace."
Even after narrowing things down that far, I felt this list would change if I thought about it for a second longer. Hell, what about all the jams on my "Reggae/Ska/Rocksteady/Dub Summer Cookout Mix?" Those should be on there somewhere. And I'm a fairly happy guy, what's with all those depressing songs? Was I going to have to edit this list again? No, better just to keep it like it is and memorize it. Oh crap, I don't have any rock on there. What about "Jailbreak" by Thin Lizzy, or "Southern Girls" by Cheap Trick? Hell, what sort of list has no Buzzcocks? Or Husker Du? No "Freakazoid?"
I can see now why I froze up. This was just too much information for my mind to handle. At least she didn't ask me about movies. Aw crap, now I should start making and memorizing a movie list. I hope nobody wants any work out of me for the next two weeks.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Reading Is FUNdamental
Sure, I could try to dredge up some story from my past in the hopes of either getting some laffs or connecting emotionally with you. Possibly you've been through the same experiences, felt the same emotions and we can relate on a deeper level. That would be magical.
But it's a lot easier to show some pictures of other people's work and make fun of them. These are all real books I've come across the last week or so at work. Stop by and check them out!
It's what Dom would have wanted.
This book is over 200 pages long. I think I could cover the topic in less than half that.
Who knew Grady from "Sandford and Son" had a starring role in such a sexy book? Good for him! *
I jokingly call several of my close female friends crazy cat ladies. After seeing this book, I no longer feel they qualify.
* Actually, this whole story was an excuse to run more photos of "Sanford and Son" cast members, since "Aunt Esther Sanford and Son" remains the site's highest search term. So here's a picture of Grady.
But it's a lot easier to show some pictures of other people's work and make fun of them. These are all real books I've come across the last week or so at work. Stop by and check them out!
It's what Dom would have wanted.
This book is over 200 pages long. I think I could cover the topic in less than half that.
Who knew Grady from "Sandford and Son" had a starring role in such a sexy book? Good for him! *
I jokingly call several of my close female friends crazy cat ladies. After seeing this book, I no longer feel they qualify.
* Actually, this whole story was an excuse to run more photos of "Sanford and Son" cast members, since "Aunt Esther Sanford and Son" remains the site's highest search term. So here's a picture of Grady.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
New York Minute
As expected, my New York trip was awesome. Doubly awesome because I didn't hurt anybody this time, except for perhaps several of my internal organs and the psyches of those who were unlucky to see me rip my shirt off repeatedly.
I was heavily recruited by my friends to sell my house and join them in the big city. This happens a lot on vacation. People who don't have to be near me that often think it would be a good idea for me to live around them. Strangely enough, people in Jacksonville who have to put up with me day after day tend to want me to go far, far away.
Most of these pictures were taken with my crappy no-flash phone. That's why they are blurry and out of focus. Plus, I was probably drunk. I took a lot of pictures, including excited photos of snow falling, but they were even more blurry than the crappy pictures I decided to share here so they didn't make the cut. The Goo Goo Muck - committed to quality control.
If I have one regret, it's that I didn't have enough time to spend with everyone, that and the fact that we didn't make it to the Sbarro's where the Fat Boys filmed the seminal music video "All You Can Eat," for a recreation, but that just gives me a goal for next time.
Thanks to everyone in NYC for their hospitality, showing me around and putting up with me and my traveling companion. Now enjoy the stunning picture quality only a cheap T-Mobile phone can provide!
I stayed at my friends Keith and Ellie's apartment. It's full of robots.
Robots and booze.
When in Brooklyn, visit Desert Island for all your comic needs (and Sicilian bread, apparently). Be sure to ask the owner about Mary Worth and Marmaduke.
Gettin' down in Chinatown.
These are stuffed cats for sale in Chinatown. For some reason, they have removable poops in their mouths.
GRRR!!!
Check it out, Joe Strummer on a wall!
If you happen to find this baby she will enthusiastically toast you all night. She's sort of like a continual Baby New Year.
One of these gentlemen got into a fight with four college kids just minutes before this photo was taken.
This robot hurt my feelings.
I was heavily recruited by my friends to sell my house and join them in the big city. This happens a lot on vacation. People who don't have to be near me that often think it would be a good idea for me to live around them. Strangely enough, people in Jacksonville who have to put up with me day after day tend to want me to go far, far away.
Most of these pictures were taken with my crappy no-flash phone. That's why they are blurry and out of focus. Plus, I was probably drunk. I took a lot of pictures, including excited photos of snow falling, but they were even more blurry than the crappy pictures I decided to share here so they didn't make the cut. The Goo Goo Muck - committed to quality control.
If I have one regret, it's that I didn't have enough time to spend with everyone, that and the fact that we didn't make it to the Sbarro's where the Fat Boys filmed the seminal music video "All You Can Eat," for a recreation, but that just gives me a goal for next time.
Thanks to everyone in NYC for their hospitality, showing me around and putting up with me and my traveling companion. Now enjoy the stunning picture quality only a cheap T-Mobile phone can provide!
I stayed at my friends Keith and Ellie's apartment. It's full of robots.
Robots and booze.
When in Brooklyn, visit Desert Island for all your comic needs (and Sicilian bread, apparently). Be sure to ask the owner about Mary Worth and Marmaduke.
Gettin' down in Chinatown.
These are stuffed cats for sale in Chinatown. For some reason, they have removable poops in their mouths.
GRRR!!!
Check it out, Joe Strummer on a wall!
If you happen to find this baby she will enthusiastically toast you all night. She's sort of like a continual Baby New Year.
One of these gentlemen got into a fight with four college kids just minutes before this photo was taken.
This robot hurt my feelings.
Caribbean Scream
My parents took a trip to Jamaica when I was a little kid and dragged me along. Like a lot of things they provided, the experience was completely wasted on me.
I don't know how old I was; I'm not even sure if my sister was born yet since all I was focusing on was myself. I do know this would have been the early '70s, so the opportunity was there for all sorts of awesomeness.
Maybe Mom and Dad checked out Lee Perry mixing some dub plates at the Black Ark:
Perhaps they listened to this guy's bad-ass mobile sound system:
Maybe they ate some curried goat or jerk chicken. Actually, knowing my dad, I'm sure he ate some goat and chicken.
I don't remember that much about the trip. I remember eating ice cream and watching Tom and Jerry. I remember swimming with my dad and walking on a deserted beach early in the morning. I remember seeing women balancing stuff on their heads at some market. And I remember being in a state of sheer terror for the entire trip.
It was my first plane ride and I was pretty excited. While we were up in the air (we were up in the air!) I took out an in-flight magazine about this place my parents were taking me. There was a black and white photo of some strange ladies dancing around. I read the caption: "Witchcraft and Voodoo Abound in Jamaica."
Holy crap.
I loved reading about ghosts, monsters, witches, anything creepy. I never really got too scared, because I knew all that stuff was made up. But this was an actual photograph. In a magazine. For adults.
My parents were taking me to a place where witches roamed the streets, secure enough in their evil that they didn't even mind being photographed.
That's when I started to think that my parents were actively trying to kill me.
At some point we went to some caves. Here's a picture I stole off the internet:
I remember my parents telling me about these caves. Those things sounded awesome! I was gonna go into a cave! There was probably treasure and pirates and stuff down there. And bats! There were totally gonna be bats in that cave! Man, was I gonna explore the hell out of that cave. I wonder how long my parents would let me hang out down there? Couple days ought to give me enough time to fully explore the place and get my fill of treasure.
Once we got to the caves I refused to take a step inside.
I don't know what sort of cave I was expecting, but this was clearly not it. This wasn't a cool pirate cave, this was a home for witches and mummies, just waiting to put me in some Jamaican stew or ... whatever it was mummies did to little kids.
There's also a picture at my parent's house somewhere of me grasping a waterslide for dear life, my face red and contorted, because I saw a ton of spiky sea urchins waiting to impale and poison me under the water.
This was probably the beginning of my shaky history with vacations. It was probably also the beginning of my parents considering leaving their fraidy-cat kids at home while they went on vacation.
I don't know how old I was; I'm not even sure if my sister was born yet since all I was focusing on was myself. I do know this would have been the early '70s, so the opportunity was there for all sorts of awesomeness.
Maybe Mom and Dad checked out Lee Perry mixing some dub plates at the Black Ark:
Perhaps they listened to this guy's bad-ass mobile sound system:
Maybe they ate some curried goat or jerk chicken. Actually, knowing my dad, I'm sure he ate some goat and chicken.
I don't remember that much about the trip. I remember eating ice cream and watching Tom and Jerry. I remember swimming with my dad and walking on a deserted beach early in the morning. I remember seeing women balancing stuff on their heads at some market. And I remember being in a state of sheer terror for the entire trip.
It was my first plane ride and I was pretty excited. While we were up in the air (we were up in the air!) I took out an in-flight magazine about this place my parents were taking me. There was a black and white photo of some strange ladies dancing around. I read the caption: "Witchcraft and Voodoo Abound in Jamaica."
Holy crap.
I loved reading about ghosts, monsters, witches, anything creepy. I never really got too scared, because I knew all that stuff was made up. But this was an actual photograph. In a magazine. For adults.
My parents were taking me to a place where witches roamed the streets, secure enough in their evil that they didn't even mind being photographed.
That's when I started to think that my parents were actively trying to kill me.
At some point we went to some caves. Here's a picture I stole off the internet:
I remember my parents telling me about these caves. Those things sounded awesome! I was gonna go into a cave! There was probably treasure and pirates and stuff down there. And bats! There were totally gonna be bats in that cave! Man, was I gonna explore the hell out of that cave. I wonder how long my parents would let me hang out down there? Couple days ought to give me enough time to fully explore the place and get my fill of treasure.
Once we got to the caves I refused to take a step inside.
I don't know what sort of cave I was expecting, but this was clearly not it. This wasn't a cool pirate cave, this was a home for witches and mummies, just waiting to put me in some Jamaican stew or ... whatever it was mummies did to little kids.
There's also a picture at my parent's house somewhere of me grasping a waterslide for dear life, my face red and contorted, because I saw a ton of spiky sea urchins waiting to impale and poison me under the water.
This was probably the beginning of my shaky history with vacations. It was probably also the beginning of my parents considering leaving their fraidy-cat kids at home while they went on vacation.
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