Me, Mike, Metal, & Mountain Dew

 

In the summers of 1982 and 1984, I spent some significant time with my sister Laurie (I have 3, this one would once share my surname, as she's from my dad's first marriage), her husband Mike, and their children.  I remember the summers quite vividly as I really looked up to my brother-in-law Mike a great deal.  After all, he introduced me to much of the METAL I still listen to today. Keel, Fastway, Dokken, and the early (and far superior) AC/DC. (My sister, Pee Wee would be responsible for the rest of the metal.  April Wine forever!)

He had the Australian AC/DC discs known as High Voltage (there's a huge diff between the American one and the one released in OZ.)  and TNT.  Eternally jealous.

Anyhoo, thanks to Mike, the scent of diesel, when it hangs in the air particularly in the summer, reminds me of the man.  It rigidly imprinted itself into my neuro-sensors as Mike was a truck driver, and on one of his inner-state runs he took me along for a week.  Diesel only makes guest appearances in my life when it floats by off of a passing big rig today, but when you're in a semi, it imbeds itself.  And when it was in that powerful state in 1982, I was seated to the right of Mike.  We laughed, listened to music, and yelled at each other, because with the volume of the semi, speaking at regular volume made communication impossible.

Of course, being that rig was without AC it had to be one of Wisconsin's hotter summers.  We had to stop for drinks quite frequently, and 1982 was the Summer of Dew.  When I'm lucky enough to come across a 12 pack of Mountain Dew Real Sugar, (or Throwback, as some call it) much like diesel, it takes me back to that summer and My Man Mike.  If anyone wants to tell you that there's not a practical difference between High Fructose Corn Syrup and Real Sugar in a soda, particularly Dew, they're nuts. 

Certifiably.

Mike and I grew tight during those summers, and he'd often drop by home in Kenosha periodically year-round, when his route took him that way.  He'd enjoy a meal prepared by my mom, and crash out on a spare bed sometimes when the timing was right, as the bunk in the back was a cramped, claustrophobic box of discomfort.  I know, I had to split it with him for that week, and with Mike's long frame, it had to be the shits for him as well, sharing it with me. 

In January of 1986, it was a Friday afternoon, just after school in Waco, Texas.  A friend of mine and I were planning to head down to the Richland Mall to hang out for the evening when the phone rang.  News was received that Mike had been in a truck crash in Oklahoma.  There was an explosion involved. I was being reassured of the quality of the burn center they had in Oklahoma City. 

At 14 years old, I was still kicking death around like a spiked soccer ball.  I had lost my father five years earlier as readers would know, and had a few other too close losses along the line as well.  I was mulling over what happened, not fully getting the true nature of the specifics, which I won't go into now.

A couple days later, Mike passed away.  He was 32. 

I still fight with this sometimes.  The unfairness and suddenness of it all.  Sometimes, you hear "Bad things happen to good people" from folks.  

Eat shit. 

There are terrible and uber-wealthy people walking the earth, living forever as they wreck everything around them, or because of their money they are given resources to fight and win battles most of us can't even engage in.  I've never been able to, nor can I still abide that.  Mike was a great person that meant a lot to me, taught me a few things in our brief time together, and the memory of him makes me smile. 

At least I have that. 

One time in 2008, I was at a Piggly Wiggly store in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin in the check out aisle. I swear to god I saw him about 6 or 7 aisles over.  My heart began to beat.  Seriously pound.  I had 4 or 5 people ahead of me, so there was time to ponder, to wait.  No matter how many minutes went by, the appearance of the person I was looking at did not change. 

I thought about it.  I really did.

I actually took the first step to walking over to this person to talk to them.  

About what?  

I have no fucking idea. I mean, it obviously couldn't have been Mike, could it?   I've read about doppelgangers, but what are the chances Mike's would live in the same state as he did?  Eventually, I left well enough alone, purchased my items, and went out to my car. 

And cried like a baby, really mourning him for the first time.

Autograph City: Part 2

 I've written on here before about how I've had the luck of the Irish when it comes to autographed books.  For a reminder it's all here. 

That luck never ran out, and it gets weirder all the time.  

Bill "Spaceman" Lee is one of the true characters of baseball, and there are many.  He was the true provocateur of the game in the 70's, advocater of weed, and comic maelstrom all while managing to be a more than effective major league pitcher.  His book, The Wrong Stuff, is among baseball's more referenced and beloved tomes.  It's right up there with Ball Four, The Bronx Zoo, and Temporary Insanity. I got a copy of it online, and it physically feels like it's been in a lumber drying oven for a decade and I had to elicit the help of Frances to repair the cover from its cracked and lowly state.  

eBay.  Sometimes it's like rolling the dice. 

But I enjoyed the book so much I wanted to read the sequel, Have Glove, Will Travel, and ordered it off of eBay as well, as it's out of print.  I made the effort to really read the condition description this time and it appeared at my door almost brand new.  Inside, on the cover page is Bill's looping signature with the word "EARTH" written under it and the year 2005.  At the time, The Spaceman was letting the current book owner know where they were apparently., 

Mo Rocca

In the Glory days of The Daily Show, Jon Stewart's army of correspondents that helped him inject world events with snark and realistic opinion consisted of Stephen Colbert, Steve Carrell, John Oliver, Samantha Bee, and the often forgotten Mo Rocca.  Mo came off like a combination of John Stossel and Jesse Eisenberg.  He wrote a political humor piece called All the President's Pets that I picked up at a library book sale.  Getting home I found his signature inside dedicated to Michelle.  Unexpected indeed

Imagine if my name was Michelle.

Chester Marcol

Packer fans with any years behind them know who Chester Marcol is.  He was a kicker for the Green Bay Packers starting in 1972 and even won rookie of the year in an era when kicking accuracy wasn't what it is now.  In two of his first three seasons he led the league in attempted and made kicks.  He also missed 15 and 14 kicks in those seasons.  (He kicked for quite a few years beyond those 3 as well)  Those miss totals would not even get you on a roster today, as kicking has become such a refined and accurate art.

In the beginning of his final season in Green Bay, a season he wouldn't finish as personal demons caught up with him, he made this play that most long time Packer fans will either never forget or have been educated about:

Another eBay order, his autobiography known as Alive and Kicking, as Chester battled those demons I told you about and beat them, arrived on my doorstep, carrying (unbeknownst to me) an introduction from my all time football hero, Lynn Dickey. 

And inside, Chester's slick looking signature, silver pen on green.  Kinda cool. 

They held Payton to 65 yards.  That's a freakin' miracle!

Greg Kihn

 

 The Break-Up Song is not only a nostalgia machine, one that takes me back to a time in my life when my family and I were rebounding from tragedy, it's also one of my ten favorite rock songs of all time.  It was written and sang by Greg Kihn, whose self-titled band would go on to have a couple more hits and sell some records.  Greg was known for his sense of humor as he appears in the end of Weird Al Yankovic's parody of Greg's song "Our Love's in Jeopardy", "I Lost on Jeopardy".

Greg's a bit of a writer too.  Many years ago whilst wandering through a book store, I saw a copy of his new horror novel, "The Horror Show" and after reading all the plus reviews on it, damn near bought it. I have a decision making disorder in stores that exists to this day (Just ask Frances how powerful it is) and I ended up not buying it. 

Around Christmas time about two years before the pandemic, we were wandering around the Frisco Half Price Books and I came across Kihn's novel, only this time it was in hard cover.

And autographed.

But this time dedicated to two people.  Now I'm not saying I know these people, but I do know two people with these names, that hang around together a lot, and one of them has a unique name.  So odds are even it was to them, and it makes sense they would be dumb enough to part with it. 

The Art of Mentorship

My sister Linda began dating a guy named Don in the summer of 1977.  I was 6.  

Cue "Come Sail Away" by Styx.

I would need both hands to count the amount of times he's saved my life.  He would be part father, part brother, part best friend, and all mentor. 

There's a scene in one of the Rocky movies, where Pauly tells Rock that if he could be anyone on Earth, he would be him. 

I wrote that in one of Don's birthday cards. Except for, you know, I changed Pauly to me and Rocky to Don.  Otherwise it wouldn't have made any fucking sense.

You see, there was a time in my life where I had next to nowhere to go.  For weeks, Linda gave me as much area as she could in her one bedroom apartment. I know I was eating up room, taking time and space from someone who needed theirs.  Linda never complained.  

Don swooped in, gave me a bed and a room, storage space for what I had, a room for my kid so Aidan would have his own place to go when I had custody, and an indefinite soft landing as I tried to re-gear my broken machine and get it running again.  While there, he paid for me to fix my painfully broken dentistry in an emergency situation when my insurance would only cover half.  Once again, he saved my life.

Once again.  Linda was right there. Though they are no longer together, they communicate, and she told Don to make sure I was eating, that I was taking care of myself.

In 1989, when I was attending trade school, Don and Linda rented me their basement at an incredibly low rate.  When semester change came, and I couldn't swing my books, he skipped the rent.  This happened more than once.  He gave me rides to work and school when epilepsy took that ability away from me. 

In 1987, my parents wanted to jump from southern to central Wisconsin when I only had 7 weeks of school left. With all the changes that had taken place in the previous two years, I couldn't do it again.  Don and Linda let me stay with them until the school year ended, to dull the sharp edge of another major shift. 

In 1988, there was a time when life was pushing me to the edge of a jagged cliff.  Don and Linda took me into the woods for a week to get my head right.  The level in my head had its bubble returned to the middle after that trip. 

Don was there when I was 6.  I remember the first time I saw him.  He let me pretend to drive his car.  He dropped 10 years of age to entertain me frequently. When my Dad died, he did his best to partially fill an impossible void.  He taught me things about fixing cars that pretty much don't apply in today's age of ridiculous engineering, but it got me through a long time. He taught me to drive.  He taught me how to string and fire a bow.  He took me hunting and taught me how to do it.  He informed a large portion of my taste in music in my youth.  He and Linda took me to my first concert. 

He always answered the phone.  

He always listened. 

He was always there.  Even in situations where distance, and even time are a preventative, I know he's there.  When my kid wanted to visit me in Texas in 2012, it was Don who picked my kiddo up, Don who took Aidan to the airport, Don who made sure the first-time flyer got on the right plane.  Aidan is actually Don's Godchild and means the world to him. We had some fun together while I got life back in a flight pattern at Don's place.  We saw Blue Oyster Cult, multiple movies, celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas together, and had more than a few hundred laughs as a trio. 

One time, during that period where I lived in his house, we were standing in his kitchen, and I began to cry because of all of the too-much-ness.   He gave me his usual grunt and "Aw, man there's no need for that shit" before wrapping his arm around the back of my head. 

"Why do you do this for me, why do you keep saving my life?" I asked. "I haven't done shit for you, man."

"That's not true.  You always make me laugh, Robby" he said, before dropping a handful of peanut M&Ms into my palm, and making me a Whiskey and Coke. 

Imperfect though they may be, there are still heroes. 

Orangey's Journey Part II

 ORANGEY'S JOURNEY PART II

After a week or two at Tonya's place, it was decided that Orangey would need to spend some time on display at the Allen, TX PetCo so potential adopters could see him, and see him up close instead of on the website for his rescue sponsors.

I wasn't big on that.  I didn't like the idea of him spending entire nights in a big chain pet store for an extended period.  I even asked if I could pick him up at store's closing and return him in the morning.  This was asked with humor, of course, as my job hours would not permit this.  Tonya took my request seriously, at which point I assured her I was just joking about something I knew was impossible, but in my heart was a perfect world situation.

She then said, with my explanation about kidding coming after she spent several paragraphs explaining why my idea was against policy: "Are you fucking Crazy?"   I busted into laughter, but I still didn't like Orangey in that situation, because at the least it made me sad for him. 

I asked Tonya for frequent updates and got them, as Orangey got the entire top level of his condo to himself.  The people who came in to clean and give attention to the cats had wonderful things to say about Orangey's persona, as he withstood his stay in his little box.  Those folks that came in loved him, and this came as no surprise to those of us who knew the big "O". 

 

After only a week in the Kitty condo, Frani's niece Arielle decided she was interested in taking care of Orangey for a time as a foster.  So Tonya arranged for Orangey to get picked up by Arielle, supplied him with food and toys and sent him on his way.  Arielle brought him over to us, where we doubled his supplies.  Arielle has now had him for well over a month, and apparently the relationship is one of joy.  Orangey is very affectionate with Arielle, taking over part of her bed at night, while having the run of her place during the day, and the kitty tower we gave as a housewarming gift. The daytime arrangement appears to be good with Orangey as she can watch him on the Wyze camera we gave her to keep an eye on him from work.   (Yes, we're like overprotective parents.)

This past week,  Arielle had to take a trip, so we kept Orangey while she was away.  We had to keep him in a spare room, which saddened me, but due to his F-IV, we cannot risk possible encounters with our own kittie babies.  However, the room is much bigger than the laundry room his crate was in when we first rescued him.

So it was a touch of a compromise.  We were somewhere in the middle. 

To our surprise and great joy, he really liked it there.  Very little meowing, no clawing, and he found a way to do his exercise "zoomies" as Arielle calls them, by running around and under the bed, and playing with his ball pyramid.   His appetite was every bit as good as we could have hoped it could be for a kitty changing locations again, without knowing how it would end up.  I mean, after all, this room, while being an adult sized room, is much smaller than Arielle's apartment where he has free reign.  Orangey's comfort only seemed to expand, right until he was picked up by Arielle upon completion of her trip.

Orangey is at ease, and I couldn't be happier.  I miss him now that he's gone home, but I can relax, as we'll have him for another stay next month as Arielle has an additional trip to take. 

Bound to the Past: Michelle Remembers

During the late 70s and the early 80s there was a book making the rounds called Michelle Remembers. It sold a ton of copies and the basis of its narrative was regression therapy, where a psychiatrist talks a patient through their memories using hypnotism in a format where they’re basically reliving the events as they happened in an unconscious state.

This resulted in the titular Michelle remembering Satanic abductions, abuses, and murders including with babies. Now as time has gone by it’s become quite clear that there was no evidence of any widespread satanic abuses, murders, or cult monstrosities of this ilk.  The sudden outcry that came in the wake of the book sales is now known as the “Satanic Panic” and it had widespread coverage on the nightly news and Geraldo Rivera specials. Geraldo was even talking to Ozzy, pointing fingers on the air. Now I’m no Osbourne fan, (he owes Randy Rhoads the world)  but I think Jerry would have been better off getting the members of Venom and Mercyful Fate on the phone, quite honestly. 

There was indeed ugly cult activity of course.  I remember early 80’s horror stories of animal killings in a ritualistic fashion in rural surroundings even near where I lived. But these tales of widespread human bloodshed were obviously a product of mass groupthink brought about by the absorption of this book and the growth and spread of regression therapy.  This psychological technique has long since been debunked. 

The circumstances around the book that started it all are actually quite seedy.  The titular Michelle and the therapist were married to others when the regression began, and to each other by the time the book came out.  The cover of the original hardcover was subtly lurid, while the paperback was straight out of VC Andrews Flowers in the Attic series.  It was more like an emanating horror story than an example of true crime. 

It’s all in the past now, but a perfect time capsule example of mass hysteria at its worst.  The film Regression with Ethan Hawke and Emma Watson explains a fictional example, even mentioning this book with a substitute title.  The movie works, explaining how the hive mind can run with things.  Over a cliff if necessary. 

There's also a documentary on the streaming service Tubi, Satan Wants You, that tells the events pretty well and has key testimony from the key figures involved.  It pretty much corroborates everything that's been said here.

I have a copy of the hardcover of Remembers that I got at a library book sale, and I don’t know how I feel about reading it.  I guess I'll take Frani's advice and approach it as fiction.

The Question Surrounding Public Domain

 So I've read recently that there's going to be a sequel to Winnie the Pooh: Blood & Honey, which is a slasher film using the characters that were Disney-owned.  You know, Winnie the Pooh bear, Piglet, Tigger, Eeyore, and Christopher Robin.  The fact that there's a sequel means the original must have pulled in more than its share of bucks.

I always felt the intellectual property (or IP, if you're trendy) should remain in the ownership of its creator. I guess after a time, it falls into the public domain, regardless of repetition of renewals.   This is now happening with an early rendition of Mickey Mouse (circa Steamboat Willie) and its already been done with the Grinch (although I was unaware he fell out of public domain).  Has he?

Now I guess new ideas and outlooks lent to a character can be fun and interesting, and even refreshing to a degree, but it seems the directions these filmmakers generally go in is horror film bloodbaths.  

To an extent, in my eyes, this is sacrilegious, even blasphemous. I suppose there's a certain group of people that may find humor in it, I guess, but I've already read stories of kids left with these movies, and being emotionally hammered by the event. The parents should pay closer attention to what they're exposing their kids to, but at the same time packaging can be misleading (Hell, I even recall a big cardboard disclaimer attached to the shelf Pan's Labyrinth was sitting on at Hollywood Video so parents would know the film was not directed at children.)

It even happened in a classroom: click here.

But it comes down to the spirit of the idea.  What's in your head that makes you want to create images of long time childhood icons murdering people in the most graphic ways?  This is a trend that will not be going away, folks, it's catching on, and I find it disturbing. 

Call me a fogey, call me touchy, whatever.  Actually, As a matter of fact, I'm kind of a horror film buff to some degree .  So I’m not a prude, and if I want to see people disemboweled, I'll go see In a Violent Nature, I don't need to watch representations of my childhood sources of comfort executing the worst of acts.

My sister and I were given copies of some wonderful Winnie The Pooh and Eeyore books as kids, had plushes of Eeyore in Pee Wee's case, Tigger in mine.  We brought them with us everywhere.  They were a source of companionship when lonely, warmth when cold, 

Peace when troubled.  And there were troubled times.

The stories were well drawn and eye catching, and something we both enjoyed looking at over and over. To think of it all being desecrated for a few bucks or a few yuks weighs heavy on me.

The world is becoming a shitty enough place without having to take the gentle things, and turn them into something evil, something inside out of its original purpose. I feel like Eeyore in the book on the right of that photograph. 

I don't know what direction we're headed in anymore, but if film violence is needed, perhaps we need to lean on Jason Statham's character in The Beekeeper.   

Someone out there who feels the need to be the armour, the muscle, when those with strength are victimizing the normal of us, the ones who hold onto Piglet every night?  There's a lot of money being made from this desecration, there's a lot of money being made by destroying norms these days in general.

Who's protecting the hive?  Now that Winnie's been made to leave it and go hack people up?

The Future Star Dilemma

Back in my childhood trading card days, (the glory years of these cards were the late 70's and early 80's) many sets had a team's (less often a “mixture” of teams) future prospects listed on a single card.  It was usually three players. More often than not (exceptions to this rule were guys like Cal Ripken, Jr. and Paul Molitor) these players seemed not to make it to the big leagues, and if they did they didn’t achieve much. In the set for 1977 Topps, mixed future stars from different teams appeared on one card.  It was an odd set up, really, compared to what came before and after that season. 

However there was one particular card, in that 77 set, where each player left their mark on the game in a different way and at a different level. 

Here is that story.

Jack Clark

Now, Jack “The Ripper” Clark ripped up Major League Baseball for years.  He had one of those "borderline" hall of fame careers, where some may feel as though he should be in the legendary confines anyway.  I mean, after all, he hit 340 home runs, banged out 1826 hits, was a four time all star and twice a silver slugger.  I mean, if that's not enough to gain entry it's GOTTA be close.  So close, Columbia University has developed a test where Clark's career is used as a measuring stick for whether or not a considered player belongs in The Hall.  Somewhere, that has GOT to have Jack shaking his head.  And with a career this good, this long, why is his rookie card (shared with others or not) only valued at a couple bucks?

Ruppert Jones

Hall of Fame aside, I used to purposely collect cards of players who had damn fine careers, but despite their numbers, were considered in the hobby's nomenclature as "commons".  Guys like Jason Thompson, Jeff Burroughs, Cesar Cedeno, Tony Armas, and as seen here, Ruppert Jones.  Believe it or not, there's a lot of guys out there that topped 1,000 hits, 150 or more homers, and racked up some steals and batting average but would never even come within sniffing distance of Cooperstown.  Damn shame, really, to put up such impressive stats, and be thought of as a "common".  At least they would usually make their own team's Hall of Fame. 

 

Lee Mazzilli.  

Mazzilli sprung onto a bad Mets team in 1976.  He was built like an underwear model, hit for average and occasional power, ran the field and the bases well.  Apparently the only thing he was lacking in was arm strength. (However he was ambidextrous).  He did nail down an all-star spot once, but there's one thing he led the league in consistently.  BIG HAIR.

The ladies loved Lee.  He probably was the only thing selling tickets at Shea in his era.  Regardless, after a damn fine five year stint, he was traded, and ended up being a career journeyman.  In 1986, he returned as a role player to the Mets and helped them get a World Series championship.  He retired to do some managing and even got himself into the movies.  How fitting.

Source: SABR Bio Project

Dan Thomas

Out of the 4 players on this card, this one is the most sad and disturbing.  Dan Thomas was one of the first "can't miss" prospects that gave 70's Brewers hopefuls hope.  He got off to a slow start in the minor leagues that had folks worried, but soon righted the ship (other than a 2 month suspension for a parking lot punch-out of an umpire).  Once he got to The Show his talent popped up. Sadly, a serious bout with mental illness surfaced, this seemed to level off with his joining of a religious sect.  With this, he told the Brewers brass that he couldn't play evenings on weekends, as that was his religion's sabbath, thus resulting in him becoming known as "The Sundown Kid".  Eventually, he ended up ridden out of the league due to those religion-related issues and further mental problems.  After some independent league play, he downgraded to odd jobs before being arrested for a sexual assault of a minor.  He then hung himself in jail, and was buried in a paupers grave as he was also penniless at this time. 

Now I'm fuckin' depressed. 

Source:  The Shepherd Express

As a kid, one Christmas, my parents bought me a couple of vintage issues of Street and Smiths baseball preview. And I believe it was the 1977 Milwaukee Brewers preview article that showed a photograph of Dan Thomas sliding into third base.

 I remember looking at an otherwise dismal prediction for the 77 Brewers, and thinking “who the hell is this guy?”  He became a mystery during the pre internet era.  As the years passed, I’ve learned about Dan Thomas from reading about him on Josh Wilker’s “Cardboard Gods” website, and a rather informative article in Milwaukee’s “Shepherd's Press” magazine. Otherwise little more. 

Thomas’ career statistics are far from as impressive as the other 3 guys on the card, as he only played parts of two seasons, yet he is still so invariably different from the other three players in a thousand other ways.  The degree of difference is more than the other three players are from each other, though those chaps are all shades apart to some extent.  However, there’s no denying that all four of these players left an indelible yet distinctly different mark on major league baseball in some form or fashion, good or bad, light or dark.

And that’s what makes this “future star”card unique among it’s contemporaries.