My Mr. T Experience

^ Has anyone ever taken a bad photo of Mr. T? Honestly! I'm not trying to get a laugh here. I'm fucking serious.^

 I wrote the following tale as an inspirational speech I performed in 11^th grade. Whereas my classmates spoke fondly of heroes, role models, and departed loved ones, I chose the fictitious route. The others were sentimental. I was emotionally detached.

The response to my speech was mostly positive. Some laughed. Some worried about me.

The story has since been lightly revised, but it remains the product of a prolific yet blundering 17-year-old. Enjoy? Yeah. Do that. It's not Shakespeare, but then again, a lot of people hate Shakespeare.

###

Whenever I hear the word “inspirational,” my mind drifts back to my first day of kindergarten. It was a sunny late August afternoon and I remember how hard it was to let go of my mom's hand when we arrived at Waters Elementary.

Our teacher was very nice. Her smile made me feel at ease. I spoke to some of my classmates even though I was nervous.

I ran into a problem during recess, however. After two or three brushes with death on the jungle gym, I decided the slide might be a welcome retreat.

When I got to the ladder of the slide, a burly sixth-grader stood in my way. He scowled and crossed his arms.

“This slide ain't for girls,” the bully scoffed.

“But I'm a boy,” I squeaked.

“Well, then you should prove it,” he said. He pointed to a girl with brown pigtails playing four square. “Kiss that girl over there.”

His virtually toothless cohort sidled up and chimed in.

“Wait. What if the kid's a thespian, like them chicks in them movies yer uncle's always watchin'?”

“You shut that yapper of yours, Q-Bert!”

The bully nearly turned on his cohort.

I wanted so badly to wake up from this nightmare and be back home in my cozy bed. But I was stuck in reality, which sometimes gets ugly. I was on the verge of shamefully ambushing that unknown girl with a kiss when a strong, dark hand grabbed my shoulder.

“This boy ain't doin' no kissin' 'til he's damn good and horny.”

Oh, my God! It was Mr. T!

“Now, listen here,” he went on. “What's your name, kid?”

“It's Chad, sir,” the bully said with a tremble.

“OK. Now listen here, FOOL! This boy has the right to do whatever he chooses on this here playground, and I ain't gonna let you tell him otherwise. Now apologize to him, sucka.”

“Sorry!” Chad said. “I'm really, really sorry.”

Mr. T taught me at a young age how to resolve conflicts with others... when he launched little Chad through a nearby window. As if that wasn't merciless enough, Mr. T then pulled Chad's limp body back onto the playground, where he ordered Q-Bert to keep his friend's dead weight propped up. Then Mr. T hustled up three flights of stairs to the roof of the school. He jumped down about 30 feet—in slow motion, mind you—and diving-tackled the poor kid.

Chad got a little case of permanent brain damage on his day of comeuppance, but I've heard he has recently relearned how to wipe himself. So, he's making progress.

Anyway, the recess monitor came over to scold us, and what does T do? He pulls out a freaking machine gun, that's what. But he was careful to shoot only the ground surrounding the teacher until she retreated. That way no one got hurt. Except for... you know.

Mr. T then hoisted me onto his shoulder, made a mad dash, and eventually forced me into the back of the A-Team van. I'm still recovering psychologically from what he did in that van.

He admitted that he threw his fight with Sylvester Stallone in Rocky 3, through a waterfall of tears, I should add. As if that wasn't shocking enough, Mr. T also told me that the writers of The A-Team stole a lot of their material from The Dukes of Hazard. For instance, the scene where the villain's car veers out of control and winds up sinking in a pond. Also mentioned was the part where there's a cool explosion and people have to dive for safety.

He was really sobbing when I told him what was up between T and me.

“Mr. T, you're still my hero.”

The man looked at me with those soaked brown eyes and smiled.

“You know something, Nick, the fool I pity most is the one who doesn't believe in himself.”

And as the gentle giant gave me a hug, I whispered to him:

“Do you pity me?”

Mr. T shook his head so hard his gold chains jingled. He replied:

“Not after today, son. Not after today.”  

Straight Outta Mount Calvary: The Fireman's Picnic (rewrite)

^Shockingly coveted for a Wisconsin kid circa 1990.^

My dad grew up in Mount Calvary. Since the village is located in an area known as The Holyland, when I was a very young and naive boy, I spent an entire summer believing Jesus himself had grown up there. In truth, he didn't, but their faith has long struck me as stronger than usual. The residents are willing to wake up early on Sunday mornings to pray away their hangovers at mass. They love the Holy Spirit, and other spirits as well.

Every August, the humble village hosts a carnival at Fireman’s Park. It is aptly referred to as the Fireman’s Picnic.

It’s not my aim to deride the spirit and tradition of the Fireman's Picnic. But In the late '80s and early '90s, at least, the town's modest budget did not permit them to splurge on the crème de la crème of redneck carnival rides—namely the Gravitron and the Zipper. Throughout my childhood summers, my parents would spend money I would then hand to a scruffy stranger who allowed me to ride on a rusty cart that crawled clockwise on a track that was 15 feet wide. I wasn't expecting loop-de-loops and laser shows, but come on, give a kid something to work with, you know?

Only one ride posed a legitimate threat to the uprising of a corn dog you had just choked down. It was a blend between a high-octane carousel and a demonic swingset. A dozen seats dotted the perimeter, and they were attached to chains that dangled from propellers. Once the thing got going, the propellers spun rapidly around-and-around-and-around, and the rider got a sense of what it feels like to be an unbreakable string of snot dangling from the blade of a helicopter. If memory serves, this ride was called “Discount Nausea.”

Discount Nausea could only be tolerated in great moderation, and with little interest in the tame rides, I sought out the prize booths maintained by jabber-jawing carnies. Sadly, throwing darts at balloons and executing a pyramid of empty beer cans with a single shot from a BB gun were talents that eluded me. Though my ambition was to win a Bartman t-shirt, or a least a small poster of Packers quarterback Don Majikowski, I usually went home with the humiliating consolation prize: An artificial clip-on feather, colored the shade of a peacock’s underbelly. Not only did the carnies take my money—OK, my parents' money—a the twisted bumpkins also had the nerve to bash my impending manhood.

“I’m an eight-year-old boy,” I’d squeak. “I play with Ninja Turtles. What the heck do you expect me to do with a frilly blue feather?

And the carnie would guffaw, opening his mouth wide to reveal five lonesome maggots jutting from his gums.

“Weeelll, I’m sure you can think of somethin’, Nancy-boy. WHO’S NEXT?!”

It’s been said that human beings alternate between afflictions of either boredom or pain throughout their lifetimes. I’m not a very optimistic person, but I think that’s nonsense, primarily because of slow, wet kisses and The Simpsons.

I mention the boredom/pain aside because, after wandering through the confines of Fireman’s Park, yawning in brief intervals, I would whimsically attach the fake feather’s jagged, metal clip to my pointer finger and withstand the painful pinch until I could take it no longer. At last I would remove the clip urgently, and then shake my throbbing red finger for a while. The boredom didn’t feel so bad then.

My favorite attraction at the Fireman’s Picnic was the Moonwalk Tent. Rambunctious hopping is an activity sure to engage children. The Moonwalk Tent (aka the “Bouncy Castle”) had its charms, but after ten minutes or so, the fetid stench of sweaty socks lingering in a roasting confinement really got to you. Plus I was always bummed out about the absence of top ropes and turnbuckles inside the Moonwalk Tent. There aren’t too many places in which a top rope and turnbuckles can be set up feasibly, but dammit, inside the Moonwalk Tent is one of those places. And since I was too young to pair up with a gorgeous blond and enact that Revenge of the Nerds fantasy, I soon bid good riddance to the Moonwalk Tent.

It was after all these lackluster pursuits that I discovered the Smoky Room Upstairs, which was maintained by the local volunteer fire department.

The Smoky Room Upstairs was the size of a two-story hobbit-house, its dimensions comparable to a double-wide trailer living room. A tube the size of a manhole cover fed into the upstairs, and it traced back to a smoke machine with a generator that churned maddeningly.

The Smoky Room Upstairs (aka fire smoke house) was designed for educational more so than fun purposes. Its chief aim was to enlighten kids on safety precautions in the event of a household blaze. A mustachioed volunteer would usher kids up a short flight of stairs on the side of the diminutive structure, above the seemingly vacant first floor and into the upstairs room. I say “seemingly vacant” because I had a hunch the off-duty firemen used it as a windowless sanctuary to play games of Euchre and chug cups of Miller Lite.

His shoulders and neck craning at an uncomfortable angle, golden helmet scraping against the ceiling, our guide waved us all into the cramped room. It was furnished like an oversized dollhouse. In the midst of his boring safety lecture, he scolded a careless youngster who plopped down on an artificial couch. It’s hard for kids to discern a prop from the real thing. That’s why the little buggers feel like cold-blooded assassins when they aim a Daisy rifle at the mailman’s head.

Though the interior decorator did a half-ass job, the electrician was quite ambitious. The square perimeter was plastered with about a dozen outlets at shin level. The fireman instilled a fear of outlets into our little hearts that day, warning us of the dangers of ramming a fork in there or overloading the amplitude as the dad from A Christmas Story would do.

As the lecture drew to a close, the fireman attached his gas mask and cued the smoke machine. I’ll never forget gazing at that vent, watching the smoke wisp gracefully and ominously into our air supply, feeling like I was at the mercy of a deranged super-villain and his elaborate death chamber.

Pretty soon, when the smoke had reached a murky, almost opaque density, we were instructed to crawl out of the Smoky Room Upstairs (a trek of nine feet) and rejoin the outside world. Then it was once again time to scam money from our tipsy parents so we could buy tickets for rides and booths until it was time to go home.

###

For dreamlike childhood nostalgia, John Lennon had “Strawberry Fields Forever.” I have “The Fireman's Picnic.” What a ripoff. Someone once asked me why this story has so many sour moments, and my reply was that it wasn't the fault of the Fireman's Picnic. The onus was on me, wandering aimlessly, dissatisfied but observing.

Maybe my expectations have always been too high. Every year I go to the Fireman's Picnic in tiny Mount Calvary hoping to ride the Gravitron, and every year, it's not there.

Nestled with Kooks

^ Not my book, but I like the cover, and if Mark V. is half as talented as his dad Kurt, I'd imagine this is a worthwhile read.

"Nestled with Kooks" and "Love and Dread in Chicago" will comprise the last two chapters of Plan-B Stories, which will be (loosely) formatted like a newspaper. In contrast to the Top Stories, these are the Bottom Stories (which won't be on the blog for very long 'cause I gotta try to make some money and advance my career from book sales). ^

If nothing else, I was fortunate to have been granted some spare time to read. Circumstances allowed me to neglect confounding books on Cinematography and lifeless books on Literary Theory in favor of a hefty collection of short stories. The stories were written by an author best-known for his children's books, but this collection was for adults. I'd been brought to a place where grownups had no use for the farce found in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Then the snoring started. The din came from a drunk with mental problems who laid on a bed cocooned in blankets at the far end of the room. My back was turned to him in a futile denial of his existence when I looked up. I noticed an anomaly on the egg white walls, a curious smear of bright crimson, as though the wall too was embarrassed to be inside of a psych ward.

My unwanted roommate had staggered into room 13 not long ago. He didn't notice me as he plopped onto his cot and hastily formed his cocoon. Then he was out. Now he was bellowing a snore that would pry my eyes open indefinitely. The drunk made strange and heinous noises, aural blends of lawn mowers and Whoopee cushions. Every nasal breath climaxed with a gurgling of saliva reminiscent a coffee maker.

I groaned as I peeled off layers of blankets and stepped out of bed. A rectangle of light guided me to the commons area. I walked past a skeletal weeping woman sitting at one of the tables. Wadded tissues were strewn before her—seemingly one for every painful memory she had. There was a mostly full box of Kleenex at the center of the crumpled satellites and I didn't want to know what she had stored in her mind. I sought the nurse at the front desk.

“Hi,” I said. “Can I make a phone call?”

The nurse turned away from her computer screen, revealing a kind but careworn face. The tribulations of the moment determined which of the two features would prevail, for her patience and her compassion were fated to duel for all of eternity. She was a lot like every other nurse in that regard.

“It's almost one,” she said, gesturing to the clock.

I fidgeted momentarily and scratched my chin stubble.

“Yeah, but this friend I want to call... He's a night owl. Like me.”

The nurse rolled her glowing amber eyes.

“He'll be up. Trust me,” I said.

She wordlessly placed the phone atop the counter.

“Thank you.”

“You are to be on that phone no longer than five minutes,” she said.

My friend was really more of a disgruntled acquaintance from college. He had reluctantly agreed to be my partner for our final project in Cinematography class. I knew nothing about Cinematography and I still don't. He was disgruntled because I wasn't fulfilling my end of the partnership due to personal problems. He had problems of his own and still does, I'd imagine—only he's the type with a knack for avoiding the psych ward.

We share the same first name, so when he answered on the second ring, our conversation became like an absurdist psychodrama.

“Nick!” I said. “Man, I'm sorry to tell you this—and this is seriously not a sick prank—but I'm in a mental hospital right now, so you might have to do that final project with the lenses and the filters and whatnot without me. Again...I'm so sorry, Nick.”

There was a long pause. I got the nurse's attention and nodded triumphantly while I pointed at the receiver to indicate that I was right. She was not amused or interested.

“Are you OK, Nick?” the voice said at last.

“Not really. I'll level with you: There were some dark and depressing things I said and did recently. But if you could let Professor Porter know about the situation, I'd really appreciate it, Nick.”

“Jesus, Nick...”

I imagined him yanking a handful of his Lego-man hair and scraping his fingernails against his beard while I grated my scruff. Though I couldn't commit to a beard, or life or death, both Nicks had that scraping and grating of facial hair in common.

“I will be the messenger,” he went on, “But school is probably not the main thing you need to concern yourself with, OK? You have to get well, and if you're where you feel like you need to be right now, it's good that you checked yourself in, Nick.”

“Ooh,” I countered. “Technically, I didn't check myself in, mind you... But thanks for trying to be cool about this—uh—misfortune, Nick.”

“Look,” he said with a sigh. “Don't worry about school. Try not to worry, Nick.”

“That's good advice,” I said with a shrug. “All right, I'll probably see you later, Nick.”

“Goodbye, Nick,” Nick said.

I hung up. Another nurse had approached the one behind the counter.

“It's Karen,” the other nurse said ruefully. “She's been handling her own crap in the toilet again.”

A text-book case of Turd-grope-engitis, I surmised.

“You've got to be kidding me,” her colleague replied.

Nurses say that all the time.

They vented their dismay while I stood there. Then the nurses resumed their professional train of thought.

“If she does that again, we'll have to put her in restraints.”

“Agreed. She's too much of a sanitation risk, otherwise.”

“Excuse me,” I hazarded. “There's a guy in my room and he's snoring—I mean, really loudly.”

“We can hear that,” the seated nurse said.

“Yeah... So, do you have something to help with that?”

She tugged open a drawer, reached inside, and slapped a tiny package of cheap earplugs onto the counter. I was hoping she'd give me a loaded revolver. I nodded somberly and headed drearily back to room 13. Between curtains of oily blond hair, the woman with tissues to match her memories wept.

Doodoo-fondle-itis? I thought, still pondering Karen's ailment. No. Turd-grope-engitis is better.

My slender frame battled against my roommate's breathy sonic booms and I crawled into bed. With tremulous hands, I opened the tiny package. The earplugs alleviated nothing.

...

More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook. 

Love and Dread in Chicago

I had a very smooth transition planned from the previous story to this one, the final chapter, and I will get to that soon—albeit with less smoothness. Before that, I'd like to admit that I'm terrified about claiming the repercussions of this mostly true account. I'm feeling like a freak who's capable of feeling only easy love rather than the difficult love that is so valuable and hard to achieve. I've got to confront some heartache and it sucks.

But there is a pact I have made with myself long ago, and it trumps all the fears. Even if I never build a happy foundation for myself, I'm compelled to explain why I couldn't to anyone who cares to read, to the best of my abilities.

If you made it to “Love and Dread in Chicago” without regretting much, I'm grateful. I wish I could fix the axle alignment of your car or install a better sink in your bathroom, free of charge, but this is all I'm capable of. Arts and entertainment. Not the necessities. The luxuries.

This is going to hurt somebody a little bit, but pain is a likely outcome in the arts and entertainment racket, and anyway, stories devoid of pain seem so cheap and boring.

Thanks for reading these words when it would have been easier to have watched Monday Night Football or Louie. Those are both amazing programs. Just between you and me, I'd rather watch a Packers game or a show made by a great stand-up than read one of my stories. If a mere 20% of Americans still voluntarily read books—ACTUAL BOOKS that a court of law is not forcing them to read—I am thrilled to belong to that minority.

OK. So, there's gratitude, but that gratitude, too, is in danger of becoming a bore. The Walking Dead might be on in ten minutes! Or maybe you're just horny and you'd rather have sex with your bedmate as opposed to reading 3,000 more words. Shit, I understand. But please, come back. I just want somebody to know that I tried. Because one way or the other, I have to finish this book, and like sex, it makes more sense if there's another person involved.

###

Maggie was topless and swishing her butt cheeks from side to side as she strode in front of me. She held my hand. We were headed for the bedroom. Left and right piece of ass swayed and commanded attention like a gold pocket watch being dangled by a hypnotist. Earlier, she had told me she bought the sleek black panties that clung to her butt when she visited Rome during a college semester abroad. She had saved the lingerie for a special occasion, she said, and eventually, that special occasion benefited me. I revived her interest in that beautiful and expensive lingerie she got from Rome. How the hell did I do that? We'd only met three weeks ago. I really liked Maggie. She blew my mind inasmuch as she was as attracted to me as I was to her. She was also kind and polite. She was educated. She was a fan of both the Chicago Cubs of Illinois and the Green Bay Packers of Wisconsin. She even liked pizza as much as I do. (Arguably.) Plus, the demerits that might have been pinned on her by other guys—those stupid, conformist assholes—such as her milky, sun-despising skin and her thick, blocky glasses, turned out to be not only acceptable but very, very sexy to me. God had sent a pale a beauty with poor vision and a sweet personality my way, and rather than bitch about tanning beds and LASIK surgery, I felt entirely inclined to say a prayer of thanks in the midst of some tender but aggressive thrusting into Maggie. I was really looking forward to doing that.

So, holy goddamn shit. I should be able to publish some of that Fifty Shades of Gray-level smut, only I could be funnier than whoever wrote that book, so I should be cashing the fuck in, right? Nope. Here is what happened once Maggie and I made it to the bedroom.

###

That problem of mine lingered. How did I phrase it earlier? The groundhog couldn't see his shadow? Jesus. What a stupid figure of speech.

It was erectile dysfunction brought on by medication brought on by mental illness, to put it in Dr. Drew verbiage. I guess that's kinder than people pointing at my crotch and jeering, “No boners!” So, we'll stick with erectile dysfunction brought on by (and the rest).

There's a pill to treat that problem, too. There's a lot of boredom and pain out there to medicate. We have pills for everything.

But in the stylish condo my cousin owned in an upscale neighborhood on Chicago's north side, as I pursued Maggie's tush, I was bereft of pills that promoted erectile function.

Though they were much less fun, vials of Zoloft or Lexapro were in my possession. I was succumbing to rituals and routines again. There was an antique rotary phone resting on a glass table beside the entrance to my cousin's place, and I had been dialing the numbers “1-2-3-4” for minutes at a time before entering or leaving the place. I was clearing my throat and tapping surfaces four times and snapping my fingers for no reason, thinking I was fated to do such things and never understand why.

“Kiss me,” Maggie said.

More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook. 

The Confederator: American Gladiator from the South

                                             ^ Not pictured: The Confederator.^

Hidden deep within the chronicles of television lore that I just made up for this month's story, there's a mostly forgotten American Gladiator whose tale I'd like to share. Born in Woodland, Alabama, on the day of the moon landing, the fourteenth child of Travis and Trish Taters accomplished his lifetime goal when he got a Lynyrd Skynyrd tattoo on his back in junior high. After that, he still kept striving. He went on to become a foul-mouthed, muscle-bound showman on TV. As an often-censored Gladiator, Richard “Dick” Taters left an obscure legacy in northern states such as Wisconsin, but in the deep south, plenty of folks know the legend of The Confederator.

In order to express the triumphs and downfalls of The Confederator, whose lifetime record of being the most arrested American Gladiator still stands today, I enlisted the e-mail aid of Nitro, a former Gladiator who now resides in Las Vegas, where he divides his time between doing push-ups on the sidewalk beside a collection hat and performing his one man show: “Saturday Nitro Live.”

Nitro's response was that of a sworn enemy to The Confederator. Now, I will admit that Nitro's criticisms of The Confederator seem exaggerated, but regardless, as Wisconsinites celebrating the 238^th birthday of our favorite country this July, we should give Nitro the benefit of the doubt:

Hello and USA, USA, USA everyone in the Dairy State! Nitro here. Check out my KickStarter site and leave a donation if you care to know my real name. Anyway, the rumors about The Confederator and his rebellion against the American Gladiators are all true. I didn't like him one bit. We got along like peanut butter and bacon, or like Stonewall Jackson and any Southern General loser you can think of.

I'd say the most impressive thing on his resume was that he claimed to be “Party Buddies” with the creator of the show. Sure, the guy could lift a pinball machine above his head just like the rest of us and he was a bodyguard for Jerry “The King” Lawler for two months, but I wouldn't call those REAL credentials. Hell, I took a bullet for OJ Simpson (pre-scandal) just to land an interview.

On his first day, I gave him the grand tour of the arena. When we finally got to The Eliminator, Dick Taters had the gall to scoff at it.

“You call this 'The Eliminator'?” he said. “This crappy mound of pads 'n' plastic ain't nothin' compared to me: The CONFEDERATOR.”

He then spat a stream of tobacco onto the sacred inclined treadmill. It was the first of countless times he spat on The Eliminator. He often did so while shoving medicine balls on ropes at contenders as they crossed a balance beam.

Early and often, The Confederator raised hell. During practice, he used to shoot the tennis ball gun at people. Stagehands, janitors, it didn't matter. When told to knock it off, he'd holler that he had “done it for Shits and Giggles." Those were actually the nicknames of his two “bestest pals” from Alabama, who got to carouse around the arena. Shits and Giggles dared The Confederator to shoot tennis balls at everybody.

For his morning commute, The Confederator rode a Honda 3 Wheeler to the arena. Was it street legal? I doubt it. Plus sometimes he'd be chugging from a bottle of moonshine with one hand, blaring an air horn with the other, and steering with his knees. You call that professional?!

He demanded that since the “Star Spangled Banner” was played before tapings, we should also put our hands over our hearts and sing along to “Sweet Home Alabama.” He was the only one on the show from Alabama. (Besides, the rest of us  were into heavier stuff like Poison and Night Ranger.) The Confederator was one selfish dude.

There was a TV set up in the weight room, and the Confederator always insisted that his shows be played. Reruns of The Dukes of Hazard were his favorite. His childish lack of compromise erupted in his infamous “Dukes vs. A-Team” brawl with Tank. (June 8^th, 1992.)

He hated The Atlasphere event, mostly because of the name. “I ain't gonna use no word what sounds like it been given by some Harvard boy from Europe!” he once screamed. “When The Confederator spins at a contender to knock that sissy off a crater before it shoots up smoke, I calls it a 'Round-y Cage,' thank you very much.”

His trouble-making went overboard. We knew he was a threat to our union of Gladiators when he tackled Gemini, our unitard-wearing brother in arms, off of The Wall. In case you've been living in a freaking cave forever, The Wall was an event where contenders got a head start in climbing up a steep cliff-like thing before we Gladiators demonstrated our upper body strength by tracking them down by climbing super fast. It was awesome.

Well, as the two tussled on the floor, a fiery Gemini called him out right away. He demanded to know What in the name of Mr. T?! was The Confederator's problem.

“You's a slow climber!” the southerner said. “It's survival of the fittest!”

After that firestorm, my fellow Gladiators and I united in our opposition of The Confederator. We took a stand against that dirtbag's antics. One night he crashed a Jacuzzi party at Zap's condo, and within minutes, he was drunkenly taunting her for, “Doing the Human Cannonball like a girl!” She hammer punched him in the sternum and bit off his earring. Zap could be a pretty righteous babe.

Around this time, The Confederator got dumped by his girlfriend, who happened to be the chick who played Snow White at Disney World. Well, Blaze did some homework on their breakup and found out why she left him, which turned out to be because he wanted to invite her coworkers into the bedroom and “Let the Dwarfs watch.” What a sick-o! We sure as heck gave him hell about that. And he battled back.

Only, he battled with the mindset of a conman. For two weeks he acted out of character. He was kind and calm, and then he cordially invited the gang to home town for a charity event. We should have been suspicious since none of us had ever heard of a Civil War reenactment for charity, but I don't know, sometimes American Gladiators do stupid things. Once we put on those blue uniforms, the townsfolk at the park changed. They started booing us. An old guy whipped his dentures at me. Then The Confederator and his “bestest pals” stormed over the hill, waving that Confederate flag. We took aim with our muskets and pulled our triggers, but it was no use.

“Southern man can't be hurt by no invisible bullets!” The Confederator taunted. He then clubbed Gemini with his musket and shoved Zap into a pricker bush. Meanwhile, Shits and Giggles hurled sacks of skunks at us. We were forced to retreat. It was the worst defeat suffered by the American Gladiators at the hands of The Confederator. Plus we found out later that day that the “charity” was just a way to pay off his gambling debts.

We'd had enough of his crap. When he returned to Universal Studios, we jumped him in the parking lot and pummeled him with the pugilist sticks from Joust. When it was all over, he wobbled against his 3 Wheeler with two black eyes and a swollen lip. He cussed and spat and declared his intentions to secede from the American Gladiators.

“Nah,” Gemini said, his pectorals heaving. “We're keeping you in this union of American Gladiators.”

That was the truth. We kept him in our union, where he got perks like freedom of speech and a dental plan and all that shit. He was kept in the union, but he was demoted from Gladiator to janitor, and he couldn't call himself The Confederator anymore.

We proud Gladiators put that bonehead in his place. Sure, there were other incidents, like that time he tried to assassinate the president of the network, but he didn't succeed. Probably because the attempt was made with a tennis ball gun.

When the show ended its run, Dick Taters was almost broken but not quite. He returned to the job he always loved the most: Being a bodyguard for Jerry “The King” Lawler.

I guess there are worse jobs out there. Once I'm done sending this e-mail, I just might send my resume to The King. Unlike Taters, I've got a strong work ethic. Plus I graduated high school.

In closing, keep your feet on the pedestal and swing a mighty pugilist stick, America!

Sincerely USA,

Nitro 

Nephew Stories

On the cusp of the release of Scene in Fond du Lac, I was among the dozen or so contributors treated to dinner at a local restaurant that used to be a church. I made some humorous observations at our table and sipped from two free beers until someone noted that I was the only one in the group who had yet to reproduce. If memory serves, my reply was, “Well...that makes me feel a little sad.”

It wasn't much of a zinger, I must admit. I was lucky I didn't get booed. On the drive home, I smacked my fist against the steering wheel, for a solid retort at last had occurred to me. It was too late to seem as quick-witted as I had hoped, but I realized I should have said, “Hey...I'm satisfied with just being an uncle.”

Hindsight can be such a drag, but in order to redeem that mishap, I have composed some endearing anecdotes about my nephew. (In fairness, I'm a level-2 uncle, but my niece is still progressing through that infantile stage where you feel an undercurrent of worry about her well-being at all times since four-month-olds don't understand much about the survival racket.)

My nephew incurs slightly less anxiety, however, inasmuch as he's old enough to communicate his thoughts, and we don't have to fret about him potentially gulping down Lego blocks anymore.

When my nephew became old enough to perform the small-scale basics of sports, my dad was abundantly pleased when I bought the boy a tee ball set. The little one had taken to bopping the occasional line drive and then gleefully running a diamond-like path. Having retrieved the ball, my dad would trail a step behind him, reaching but never quite able to tag him out. It was always a bang-bang play at the plate but the boy would inevitably score another home run.

“Safe!” my dad declared. “He's safe again!”

I love the unselfishness kids instill in us. We prefer to lose so that they may win. We'll look like hapless fools so that they may feel happy and safe.

I once watched my nephew during batting practice, shortly after he had (crudely) learned how to count. With a grin of endless enthusiasm, he stood beside the tee ball stand and announced, “One...Two...THREE!” With that he swung and missed the motionless ball, but recomposed his stance, undeterred. “Three...Six...EIGHT!”

DONK! On this try he connected with a towering shot to the base of the neighbor's chain link fence. At the expense of his math skills, perhaps, I advised him to keep the “three-six-eight” countdown since baseball inspires strange superstitions.

Later that day he sat in front of me on the grass a few feet behind my dad, who had agreed to club home runs over the roof of my parents' ranch style home. My dad lobbed the tee ball into the air a few times, appraising it, and then set his stance, miniature plastic bat in hand, poised to start his one-man derby.

“We've got the best seats in the house,” I said to my nephew.

He looked back at me, puzzled, and then corrected me.

“No, no, no,” the boy said. “He gonna hit the ball OVER the house.”

Maybe he had misunderstood me, but I couldn't argue with his basic logic.

Playing my old Super Nintendo beside my nephew is another joy. He learned the preparatory method of blowing dust out of the cartridges in no time, and when a game's title screen blips disobediently, he is quick to quote the explanation I gave him months ago.

“It's slow to work. We played this game a lot a long time ago when we were boys.”

On the second or third try, when The Adventures of Batman and Robin complies, we high-five each other and retreat back to the couch. I give him the second controller that doesn't actually serve a purpose in this particular game, but he is content to mash buttons as I occasionally call him a “good helper.”

We advanced to part in which Batman must destroy huge robotic chess pieces on a sprawling chessboard.

“What's chess?” he wanted to know.

I paused the game, sought the lightly dusted board game collection in my parents' basement, and returned with a worn cardboard box with a chess game inside.

The boy's instantaneous instinct, of course, was to dump the contents onto the carpet. Thirty-two small pieces of plastic rained down and scattered. He shook once more and the board plummeted to the floor.

“What's this?” he asked of the first piece he grabbed.

“That's called a rook,” I explained. “It looks like a castle, but for some reason, they gave it a fancy name.”

“What's this?”

In a minute's time, I had covered the entire roster of chess pieces. My nephew still wasn't satisfied. He squinted quizzically at me.

“Which one is Batman?”

My snickers filled the room but he never joined me. The boy was becoming a great deadpan comedian without realizing it. Eventually I picked up a dark knight and told him it was Batman.

A week afterward, in the kitchen, with my mom and I flanking him at the kitchen table, he handed out blank sheets of paper and told us we were going to draw pictures. He then overturned a ceramic vase filled with colored pencils, which—to him—made more sense than keeping the pencils neatly arranged in the container.

“Ga'ma,” he addressed my mom. “You draw an Applebee's. Uncle Nick, you draw a bank. And I'm gonna draw...” here he paused, stretching the suspense and straining his imagination until his mind found serendipity. “ANOTHER Applebee's.”

We pressed our colored pencils against blank canvases. I designed a box-shaped building that could have passed for a low income house were it not for a sign that read “Bank.” The little one made another request.

“Uncle Nick, draw Scarecrow outside the bank.”

This seemed peculiar since scarecrows, quite unlike banks, tend to be found in cornfields.

“You want me to draw a scarecrow...outside of a bank?”

“Yeah, Scarecrow. The Batman bad guy,” he clarified.

This was another reference to The Adventures of Batman and Robin. A fear-mongering villain named the Scarecrow menaces the sixth level by robbing a bank. I snickered at the boy's expanding memory and attention to detail, but he was businesslike and intent on producing an Applebee's that looked more like a supernova than a restaurant.

The last of these nephew stories began with an error in judgment at Pick 'n' Save, wherein a few of those glass-encased claw machines entice kids beside the entryway. While the two of us watched the Game Show Network, the boy asked me a question.

“What's The Walking Dead?”

I cringed. There was a downside to the three-year-old's adeptness at working the claw machine lever. Rather than Dorah or Curious George, he had extracted a cushy action figure of a character from AMC's drama about the zombie apocalypse.

“Well, it's a TV show about a make-believe world where people have to fight monsters.”

“Bad monsters?” he asked.

“Yes, like the ones responsible for installing the claw machine at Pick 'n' Save.”

“What do the monsters do that's bad?”

“They let kids your age get Walking Dead toys.”

“No, no, no,” he persisted. “The OTHER monsters.”

I envisioned the end of the second season and the cruel fate of a blond woman as she fled a farmhouse being overrun by senseless malice in human form and contemplated the best way to convey that to my 2011-born nephew.

“Before I answer that...” I started, stalling as I reached into my pocket. “Maybe you'd rather play Pac-Man Dash on my iPhone!”

“Pac-Man to the rescue!” the boy exclaimed.

He got the fifth level of his new favorite video game as I thought about what the future would do to his innocence and then forced myself to smile as I gave him a hug. 

Hammer Plays Monopoly

                                                Plays

When I call upon leisure, it's common for me to play video games with friends. Willy and Swinkle have the same tendencies, and during a recent summer which marked for me the start of another inglorious chapter in a frustrating narrative, we'd gather to unwind and perhaps revamp our mindsets at Swinkle's studio apartment above a church that used to be a pawn shop. Our game of choice was an adaptation of a classic board game Swinkle had downloaded onto his computer: Super Monopoly.


With components of luck and some semblance of financial savvy, Super Monopoly allowed us to compete without losing real money or going through all the tedium of doling out fake money and plastic houses and straining to do basic math. We could roll the dice and then buy a property by pressing a button on the controller. Rolling dice by hand onto an actual surface had become too much of a chore, I suppose.

While I usually avoid the wizards and elves and all the other magical shit associated with role playing games, when I enter my name in Super Monopoly, I'll admit it, I get tickled by calling myself “Hammer.” I think of myself as MC Hammer in a frenzy of enterprise, constantly buying properties and overindulging, fully convinced I will never go broke. Occasionally I make jokes and observations from Hammer's perspective. Win or lose (and in this particular game I lean toward the latter), I feel like I'm enacting an episode of VH1's Behind the Music and I get a kick out of that.

I share some economical tendencies with Hammer. In life and Monopoly, as we see it, we only get so many opportunities, which means we should spend-spend-spend while we can and accept the consequences even if they turn out to be dire. In America as well as life, there is no hope for Socialism. They're both ventures for capitalists. The winners are rare, and the rest are left to scrounge for remnants of rancid chicken wings in the trash cans of back alleyways downtown. That's the bad news, but Hammer and I realize that in order to get rich, the first step is to at least try to get rich. Flawed and defective as we may be, we still owe effort to the game. It takes a lot of gumption to buy a second yacht or Park Place on a shoe-string budget, but even so, we'd forfeit our self-respect if we didn't purchase these extravagances when the opportunities presented themselves.

What follows is me (as Hammer) playing Monopoly with my friends—and if this premise seems outdated, bare in mind that Hammer appeared at the New Year's Eve countdown to 2013 on ABC. He performed a duet with that Korean pop-singer who resembles the late Kim Jong Ill.

It all begins with a pixelated hand rolling pixelated dice.


Act I: “Too Legit to Quit”

They say snake eyes are a bad omen, but Hammer just started this party by landing on the Community Chest. Runner-up in a beauty contest. Deal with that, haters. Gonna roll again, but before I do that, I gotta air a grievance about how they put Hammer in the same beauty contest with an unbeatable Goddess like Halle Berry.

Guess who just purchased the hell out of Oriental Avenue? My investment portfolio is gonna be so sound I'm destined to make Bill Gates look like a brain-dead chump.

It was a quiet turn for Hammer this time around, but at least I got to visit jail and counsel Chris Brown. “The good lord and Hammer both know that the ladies can drive a man mad and make him see red. But please, don't hurt 'em.”

More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook.