G.I. Joe D.

Imagination is a funny thing. Especially while you're growing up, too. You know, like when you would dress up as your favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle (Donatello, of course) and save the best news reporter ever, April O'Neil, by fighting off Shredder -- while eating pizza provided by Splinter, your rat sensei. Don't pretend like you have no fucking clue what I'm talking about.

Either way, I like to think that my imagination is running wild as ever in this God-gifted head of mine -- enough to think people read this.

I think there was a lull, though, that considerably hindered my growth as an imaginative character. Perhaps it was caused by playing "Hey, Mister!" outside liquor stores in Detroit; the booze-filled benders spent on street corners of Birmingham; or maybe it was the time that my friends and I decided to dress up as soldiers, run around the neighborhood, and, subsequently, sprint from the police.

Yeah, I think it was definitely that last one.

So, I don't know who's idea it was, but I'm sure as hell not taking credit for this.

It was, oh, I don't know, a Friday? You know, one of those high school weekend nights just spent with your boys. It was unlike any other Friday, really. And it all started off just hanging out at P.Ry's house...

Like I've mentioned before, P.Ry is a military man. He comes from quite the conservative family stemming from the fact that his Dad was also in the Army. So I don't know if it's clear to you or not, but his Dad is not to be messed with. He goes by Doc -- his authority is like the hand of God. He could crush my head like a grape.

So what do you think P. Ry, Bush, Lep, the Fooz, and I did when P.Ry's parents left for the evening? We did what any other group of teenage guys would do, of course: steal all of Doc's Army fatigues and run around like a bunch of assholes throughout the streets of Birmingham.

Oh don't worry, we didn't come unprepared. We were equipped with facepaint too. Oh, and I'm pretty sure Bush went as far as to bring his air-soft gun. You know, just in case we faced insurgents. Oh yeah, it was gonna be a good night.

So let me save you some time and get to the good parts. I'll just brief you (it's a military term, you may not understand) on what happened after we were fully equipped in our, I mean, Doc's combat gear: we ran from P.Ry's house due East; Bush discharged his weapon into my right thigh when I wasn't looking; we continued on our march towards an undisclosed location; after passing by a civilian walking his dog, we arrived to the undisclosed location at approximately 2100 EST.

At this point, I begin to get a bit shaky with the details. (If you put my symptoms into WebMD, I'm fairly certain they're on par with post-traumatic stress disorder, but I digress.) I do know, however, that we split up: Bush and myself; P.Ry and the Fooz; Lep the Lone Ranger.

Again, I don't know why Lep was alone, but I wasn't about to say anything at the time. But if I knew then what I know now...we'd be singing a different tune. What seemed like a coming-of-age tale for Lep to go solo on this mission proved to be fatal. (Ok, well not really fatal, but if you knew Doc it very easily could have been.)

So there we are -- fatigues and facepaint camouflaging our every move under the shadow of night. An owl hooed to mark the culmination of our mission. As we began to move in on the target, our friend's house, I can remember my heart beating in my throat. Sweat began to gather on my brow -- we were ready.

Just as we were about take our positions, I noticed a flash out of the corner of my eye. Something wasn't right. We mandated the prohibition of all flashlights earlier in our debriefing. And then...

HOLY SHIT! COPS! SCATTER!

Once again, my night was foiled by law enforcement. Didn't they know we were fucking Army Rangers? And fuck, Bush was armed! He could have given those pigs a nasty bruise with his air-soft gun if they were showing any bare skin. But hell, I wasn't going to stick around and tell them that. Grease was the word, and I was running.

I take it that many of you have never had the chance to run from the Birmingham police, but if you have, maybe you can empathize with me when I say there truly is a subtle joy that comes from evading arrest. They have nothing better to do, and they know it. It's great.

Either way, along with the sheer terror of actually getting arrested, there came an absolute surge in adrenaline that allowed Bush and I to hop over fences and glide like fucking gazelles into our safe zone -- the cemetery down the road. But where were the others?! In the midst of all running to save our own asses, we lost P.Ry, the Fooz, and Lep. So much for an "Army of One."

What should Bush and I do? Do we stay safe in no man's land away from the coppers or go back and try to save the others?

Well, before we could even answer that question ourselves, it was answered for us -- we saw Lep, the Lone Ranger...in the back of the paddywagon.

MAN DOWN! MAN DOWN!

My stomach dropped. I felt sick. It was like getting hit in the sack.

I knew it right then...our game was up. But where were P.Ry and the Fooz?

Bush and I were reluctant to give up, but we had to. It was only right. I know, I know -- you're asking yourself, "Joe, why do you always take the proverbial 'high road'?"

And I'll answer you this, it's because I am one of the most self-righteous men you'll ever meet. (And humble, too.) It's ok, I know you agree. But we can talk about that at another time. Now let me get back to the story --

So ultimately, Bush and I turned ourselves in. We knew the drill: hands up, heads down. I've never been so ashamed. Not because I was getting in the back of a pig-mobile, but because I felt that I let my country down. I let President Bush down. I let my grandmother down. I let you down. The free world was on our shoulders for one night -- and we failed.

I feel like Bush, Lep, and I may have gotten the last laugh though. Because when we got back to P.Ry's house and Doc came out trying to understand why 3 boys that AREN'T his own were being escorted into his home, he went hunting -- for his own kin. I had never felt so safe in the presence of a police officer.

To try and end such a story right now doesn't do justice the myriad of emotions that washed over me while we waited alone in the silence of P.Ry's dimly lit basement. Hope, despair, jealousy, hatred, and, once again, sheer terror. What awaited P.Ry and the Fooz under the cloak of night was a man born in the shadows -- Doc.

I don't know how it went down, but Doc found our two AWOL friends before the police did --no surprise there. It's one of those things you never really talk about; one of those things that are just better left unsaid.

Doc was surpisingly calm when he talked to us though. I was bracing myself for something a little more along the lines of fire and brimstone. Or to be smote down with lightning bolts. I'll never forget his demeanor or the long talk he gave to us. I could try and re-create it for you, but that's like asking Moses to paint a picture of God after receiving the Ten Commandments. It's just not going to happen.

On days like this, I try and wonder to myself what would have happened if we never ended up doing our mission that night. I sit back, laugh, cry, and simply shake my head. I thank God for that night. I grew my first chest hair. I danced with the Devil, and won.

Some guys like to tell you tall tales of booze, loose women, and bar brawls. But not this guy. When I look back and tell my grandkids about the time my friends and I looked Death into the face and winked -- I'll be telling them the legend of Doc. And the night I became a man.



From Left: Lep, Bush, P.Ry, Myself, and The Fooz

The Fooz

Before I get too far with all these posts/stories/incessant rants, I'd like to take a moment and pause for the cause (and the Cos). You know, give a little credit where credit is due. I can't believe I've forgot to pay homage to the man who recently just stopped by one day, and ended up staying for a week--the Fooz.


Everyone knows him, whether you've actually exchanged pleasantries with the man or not. He's the old friend that stops by unexpectedly and stays for a week; the drunk uncle that you don't want your kids to be around; the little bluebird on your shoulder.


Most importantly, however, while the rest of America is resting on their laurels, he is the man that is advantageously racing across our purple mountains majesty and amber waves of grain. Yes, ladies and gents, as the world waits for relief from all that ails us, the Fooz is heading into the eye of the storm -- he's taking on America one city at a time. Well, actually, what I'm talking about is his (cue thunderous voice echo) GREAT MIDWESTERN ADVENTURE.


Luckily, I was fortunate enough to lay claim to his first pit-stop along the way. (Chicago's the Gateway to the West, right?) Well, by the grace of God, Fooz made it. And, let me tell you, the man did it WITHOUT Google Maps. How many people can say they have done that?


You're a goddamn liar if you said "Oh, shit I have." You needed a map when you were playing Oregon Trail. You aren't going to convince me otherwise -- not this time.


Either way, I just lost my train of thought. Thanks a lot.


Oh yeah, so I guess now I really don't have much to say, except "Godspeed, Fooz."


Hopefully he hasn't already died en route to his next destination, and will be able to read this. And if you're asking yourself why I am practically blowing this guy, it's because he gave me quite the inspiration to keep this whole blog-thing going. And if you don't like my blog, fuck you.

So here's to the little bluebird on all of our shoulders. And maybe, just maybe, I'll move out of my parent's house one day.

Now back to more self-deprecating stories. I promise.

The Taste of Stevie Wonder

I think I had a pretty good weekend. Here are some reasons:

1. My parents came in town.

2. I saw Stevie Wonder.

3. I'm fairly confident he saw me too.

I don't think I really need to explain much more. His name is Steven Wonderful. He is fantastic. He makes babies and music. He is agape.

But, to move past his epic performance, I've got to tell you this: I saw Stevie Wonder drive into the show!

No, he wasn't the driver, you fucking goof. It's bad enough they allow old people and Asians to drive.

But honestly, it was great. My parents and I were being zealous citizens -- abiding to traffic signals and crosswalk regulations -- when along comes, who else, but Stevie and his crew driving up in a brand new, white Escalade. (Move over, St. Lunatics.)

So close your eyes and imagine this (just as Stevie does): we're minding our own business, about to walk into the Taste of Chicago, when Stevie's driver practically bulldozes a group of innocent pedestrians.

What would you do in that situation? Oh, I'll tell you what we did -- we waved to him and screamed his name like a bunch of little schoolgirls.

You know, why not make gestures at a blind man as a way to show my adoration? It seemed like a good idea at the time, though. Just about as good as Stevie Wonder requesting the specific

COLOR and MAKE of his escort vehicle.

It may just be me, but it seems a bit strange that a man of his, ahem, caliber is demanding particulars such as colors and shapes of cars that he has never -- dare I say -- laid eyes upon. But hey, who am I to judge?

So kudos to you, Stevie Wonder! You don't need to look in a mirror to know you are still a true American badass. You just have everyone else telling you how fucking sweet you are (myself included).

Now I wonder....was Helen Keller was this demanding?